


Peas and Lentils

by carriecmoney



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drinking, F/F, Gen, M/M, Male Cinderella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-06 18:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1868406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carriecmoney/pseuds/carriecmoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco's got an overbearing boss and a body scarred by his past. Jean's got a politician mother and a future going dimmer by the test. Maybe if they can stop feeling sorry for themselves for a few minutes, they might find something new to look forward to in each other. Vaguely Cinderella-ish!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> {A/N: The amount of my life I have devoted to Cinderella retellings can only mean that I'd write at least one before I died. This was inspired by [jacklalonde's art](http://jacklalonde.tumblr.com/post/89979959459/are-they-on-a-date-is-this-a-coffee-shop-au), but it shifted in the planning stages and doesn't really match the art anymore so the resemblances are miniscule at best. This'll probably be shorter than I expect, so hopefully I'll actually finish it before I jump on to the next story idea :P  
> [tumblr](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com)}

Marco tumbled off his bed at six in the morning when the floor beneath him exploded.

Okay, that’s only what it _felt_ like. Really, it was his Uncle Keith (known to all as just Sarge) bellowing from the store below his apartment to get his lazy ass out of bed, did he think money grew on trees, wasting daylight, all the usual morning garbage. Marco groaned and surrendered to the freezing wood floor beneath him, wrapped in his sheets and resigned to all the facts of his life. When Sarge’s voice came from the stairs instead of below, Marco flung off the sheets as best he could. “I’m up, I’m up!”

“A likely story!” (Sarge spoke chiefly in exclamation points.) “Bed check!”

 _Balls_. Marco snapped his sheets over his mattress and at least tried to tuck in the ends before Sarge and his military surplus boots clomped up the stairs and straight into Marco’s apartment - such as it was. He slammed the door open and marched in, giving his traditional _sniff_ at the apartment, _SNIFF_ at Marco, only in his boxers and a shirt and hair a rat’s nest. “Disgusting.”

Marco sighed inside and stood at attention, waiting and wishing Sarge had never enlisted in the Army for the thousandth time that month. Sarge’s bald head flashed in the morning sun as he glared around. Between endless home calls and manning the store downstairs, the buggy little apartment suffered the neglect of forgotten milk glasses and thrown-about, greasy clothes. Marco waited for the outburst, but Sarge just wrinkled his lip and massaged his temples.

“How did I get saddled with such squalor,” he muttered. Marco bit his cheek, his tongue. Sarge shook his head and turned away to the stairs. “I want this place spotless before you report downstairs, oh-seven hundred. You’ve got a long day, criminal.” Marco winced, but the scars covering his right half hid it from notice. Sarge slammed the door, his boots stomped downstairs, and Marco collapsed on the bed behind him.

It’d been three and a half years since he’d moved into the unused apartment above his uncle’s store, and Sarge still made him nervous. Sure, he’d taken him in when Marco’d abruptly found himself broke, homeless, and hopelessly unemployed almost four years ago now, but Sarge hadn’t _liked_ it. He’d straight up told Marco it was only because Marco’s dad (and Sarge’s brother) left a vacancy in his business that he didn’t want to find someone new to fill.

Marco flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a full thirty seconds, but moping wouldn’t solve his problems. He groaned and stood up again, then crossed his one room to the closet they called a bathroom. He brushed his teeth on autopilot, staring blankly into his own face in the stained mirror - one half mottled by freckles, the other half by vicious burn scars. He flexed his right hand hanging at his side, feeling the pull of four year old scars up his arm, across his chest, on down his side to his knee. By now his scars were a dull pain, a headache not quite relieved by painkillers, but they always panged more in the morning.

He spat into the sink. Another year of this, and his parole could be lifted with full pardon and he could quit this, go to college somewhere _else_ , and maybe be okay despite his dumb eighteen year old self’s mistakes.

He rolled his right shoulder back, grunted at the tight stretch of his underarm, and left the bathroom to dig out some acceptable jeans.

* * *

Jean sat back on his mom’s expensively uncomfortable leather couch, glaring at the laptop screen tilted on his knees as if glaring could fix his problems. No matter how hard and sharp his eye-daggers were, though, the grade on his latest Combinatorics II test stayed at an ugly thirty-eight out of a hundred.

He breathed deep and closed his eyes, head bent back. He was supposed to graduate this semester, if he was on time (which he wasn’t), get out of this shit town and find something better to do with his life than play second string/rhythm guitar in a band he didn’t give a flying fuck about anymore and live at home with his _mom_.

But he was failing Combo for the second time. He’d have to retake it. He’d have to stay at college for at least another semester, maybe even a year. Combo wasn’t his only problem course. He’d have to _pay_ for it. His mom was gonna flip her _lid_.

Fucking hell.

He ran a hand through his hair, shook it out. _Screw this shit_. He slammed his laptop shut and dumped it to the side, stuffed his feet in his boots, and grabbed his keys. He’d have to tell his mom at some point and put up with _that_ whole fallout, but he was going for a ride first to get his head straight. It was gonna be a _long_ day.

* * *

Marco spent the whole morning out on house calls with fellow HVAC repairman Reiner, beating up boilers and furnaces that had lasted the whole winter and given out on the final stretch. He couldn’t stress fall checkups enough to the owners when he wrote their bills afterwards, but he knew it’d never stick through the summer. At least no one today had asked if he’d fallen against the water heater face-first. By the time he and Reiner got back to the little downtown strip where the store was, it was far past lunchtime and they were both _starving_.

Reiner parked the van in the back, and they chatted about the crazy hoarder they’d serviced that day who’d hung a leisure suit from his boiler as they walked into the sandwich shop down the strip.

The cute blonde girl behind the counter smiled at them and closed her book when they walked in. “Boys! Thought I’d miss seeing you today.”

Reiner laughed, filling the almost-empty shop. “There isn’t a furnace in the world that could keep me from you, my angel Krista.”

Krista rolled her eyes and woke up her register, smiling at Marco. “What’ll it be today, _Marco_?”

“ _Hey!_ ”

Marco grinned.

Business was slow at three in the afternoon, so Krista sat with Marco at the table nearest to the register. Reiner had suffered through enough abuse at their hands by the time the guy in the back put together their sandwiches, so he joined the only other customer in the shop - Sarge’s daughter, Marco’s cousin, and eternal basketball jock Ymir. She looked a bit shifty, staring at Krista like she was her next target in a game of Assassin, but then, she always looked a bit shifty.

Krista glanced over and caught Ymir’s gaze a split second before she turned away and looked out the window. Krista raised her eyebrows. “What’s with her?” Marco shrugged.

“Ymir is a bit… odd, I guess.”

“Ymir. That’s her name?” Marco nodded, and Krista glanced at her again. “She comes in all the time, but I never get to ask who she is.”

“She’s Sarge’s kid.” Krista’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open a little.

“Well no wonder she’s odd.” Marco snorted into his Coke. “How did he even procreate?”

“Beats me. I never knew her mom, and they never talk about her, like, ever. As far as I can tell, she sprang forth when they shaved his head.” Krista bit her lips on her laugh.   

They chatted for a few minutes about work and how the weather was finally maybe starting to warm up to above freezing while Marco ate and Krista watched the door for customers. Marco never had a long lunch break, though, and as soon as his chips were gone he had to flick Krista’s ponytail in a farewell and slip around to Sarge’s for the rest of his day.

He switched off with Annie at the register without a hitch, and was just setting in for a long day of annoying nothing when Ymir came in and sat on his counter. He looked up from his receipt paper doodles at her. “You’re not supposed to sit there.”

She shrugged, sharp. “And you’re not supposed to waste stock. So we’re even.” Marco rolled his eyes and went back to his crosshatching. “So. You fucking with the girl next door, Squeakers?”

Lesson learned: never take your family anywhere you want to impress someone. “Ymir, Krista’s gay. And I’m gay. I don’t think we’d really enjoy doing that together. Why Squeakers still?”

“Because it’s funny as shit and she’s a what?” Ymir’s eyes were wide now, showing more white around the wood-stained irises than normal.

“Gay. Very gay.”

“You sayin’ she likes girls.”

“That’s typically what ‘gay’ means, Miri-biri.”

She jerked back, lip wrinkling, at the nickname, then pulled a foot up onto the counter to hide in her knee. “Think she’d…” She glanced at Marco, then scoffed and jumped down, stalking out the door as she threw her hood up and jabbed her hands in her pockets. Marco watched her go with a little smile, then shook his head and threw his doodle paper away.

* * *

Jean’s drive took him out of his fancy neighborhood, across town, up the ‘mountain’ that cupped their valley, and onto a ridge that overlooked the town. It had a good view – but, even better, it was a good place to throw things without fear of property damage.

The first thing he’d done when he’d turned off his bike was take off his helmet to feel the evening breeze in his hair, then find the largest rock he could lift and chuck it off the edge. It landed with a nice crash in the trees below, but it wasn’t quite enough. He needed to get this shit out of his system now instead of later, when his judge mother calmly laid out his flaws on the kitchen counter for her to pick apart and analyze like her latest case. She loved him, but old habits die hard – he’d bet he was one of the only children to know _exactly_ what his mother thought of him and his mistakes.

He crouched down to pry a rock the size of his foot from the packed earth, dirt getting under his fingernails. God, she was gonna love this - her only son, destined to CPA-hood and respectability, kneeling in the dirt and cursing at a rock. He was supposed to be keeping a low profile, at the least, reflecting well on her and her bid for the gubernatorial ballot come November. But, he was also supposed to be graduated and working come November, so fuck it all.

He finally got the rock out and hefted it in one hand. Strange thing was, he wanted his mom to win. Her opponents were asshats, she knew the state’s problems, the incumbent was a joke, and no one in the state capitol stood a chance against her and her warpath. She’d be good at it, he knew. He just didn’t really want to be the one she came home to after a day on that warpath.

He underhanded the rock off the cliff as hard as his arm would go. Maybe another semester wouldn’t be _that_ bad. Sure, his mom would make him pay for it, literally, and it’d suck balls to take out student loans, but it was just a few months. A few months extra to get his head on straight, dump his band members/friends and their weird romance dramas, find a big boy job.

The rock tumbled through the trees and down the hill they sat on, banging on things and making the empty branches shake. Nah, just kidding, staying at home until December was gonna suck. He heaved a sigh and sat on the edge, feet dangling, sat back on his hands. Little stones and a tree root dug into his palms, but whatever.

The sun was setting a little to his left, casting the town in gold and orange. There was still snow on the ground that hadn’t had a chance to melt yet, catching the light and turning into blinding yellow. At this point in the year, it was the only time when anything looked pretty.

He tossed a few smaller rocks off the edge that were within reach just to hear them fall as the sun fell and the orange and yellow dimmed to grey. His ears were red when he gave up putting it off and got to his feet, kicking a twig off the edge before walking back to his bike, throwing his helmet on (he’s not gonna end up like his dad), kicking on the motor and skidding away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: If you aren't already familiar with Purim the Jewish holiday, you might want to [read up](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Purim) before you get into this chapter/the rest of the fic or else you might get a little confused. [tumblr](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com)}

Jean broke the news as they were washing the dishes after dinner. His mom yelled for a full fifteen minutes before she regained her composure, took a few minutes’ deliberation, and delivered her sentence.

“No more band practice. No more band,” she began, her cool Your Honor voice only cracking a little as she glared at the pot she was scrubbing. “No more band _friends_.”

“Yeah okay.” They sucked anyway. Now he just had the excuse that his mom made him quit.

“Curfew. You’re not allowed out after midnight unless you’ve got a court order.” Shouldn’t be too hard without any friends. “You’re getting a job. I’ll employ you myself if I have to.” Jean recoiled, lip curling. “I’m not joking, Jean!”

“No, yeah, I can get a job, _please_ don’t make me work for you, God, I’ll do anything else.”   

She didn’t even crack a smile. “Then you better look fast.”

Jean swallowed, his stomach heavy and twisted in his abdomen. He nodded. “You’re paying for the rest of school. If you’re still here next summer, you’re paying rent.” Jean choked on a protest. His mom banged the saucepan in the sink. “You’re lucky I’m not kicking you out right now, sir!” Shit. Jean took a step back from her angry eyes. “Do you _know_ what this is going to do for my campaign?”

The sea in his torso crashed and roiled. He licked his dry lips.

“Yeah. I know.” He swallowed hard. “Sorry.”

“Sorry won’t save your ass anymore, dear.” She kept eye contact for a few long seconds, then looked back in the sink and sighed. “One more thing.”

Oh no. “What else is there?”

She handled over the saucepan for him to dry. “I need you to sell your motorcycle for tuition.”

“Wha- _Mom!_ ”

“I’m _serious_ , Jean!” She threw the scrub brush into the sink hard enough to clang, gripping the edge of the sink. Jean jumped back, skin too tight. “I’ve let you have your fun, and you’ve _fucked_ it up. While you’re under my roof, you’re going to stop living like a teenager and start being realistic. And that starts with the band and the bike.”

Jean didn’t care about the band, the curfew, not even so much about the money. But that bike had been his baby for _five years_. He couldn’t just _sell_ it, like a teapot at a yard sale. “Can’t – can’t I at least say goodbye?”

His mom rolled her eyes with her whole body. “Jean, it’s just a _motorcycle_. You’ll live. Probably longer.” Her knuckles turned white on the sink edge, voice scratching. “I bought you a _car_ and yet you ride that bike everywhere.” Jean held his breath, frozen, staring. She sighed and knocked her chin against her breast bone, hair sliding on her cheek. It had that frayed, rough texture from being dyed too often. How much of it was actually gray? How much had he put there?

He reached out and slid his arm around her shoulders, resting his cheek on her crown. “M’sorry, Mom.”

She reached up and tangled her fingers in his. “Darling, I hope so.”

They stood like that for a while, breathing, as she stared out the window over the sink and drew circles in his palm. He was a terrible, awful son, and for what? Freud would probably say something about his missing father and mother issues, but Freud was a sack of bullshit anyway. It was probably just him being a little shit who needed attention.

He was kind of tired of being a little shit.

“You can say goodbye.” His mom’s hand slid out of his. “I’ll give you until the end of the month to find a buyer, and quit the band _politely_. There’s no reason to burn your bridges.” He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear her smile. “I’d like you to be settled into the story I’ve been telling the press by your birthday, all right?”

“Sell my bike on my birthday? Gee, that’s a great present.” This time, his bad joke got a laugh, watery and brief. He pulled away from her and started drying again as she wiped her eyes on her shoulder.

“And tomorrow you’re going to march into your professor’s office and _apologize_ and ask what extra credit you could do to possibly embarrass yourself less.”

“ _Mom!_ ”

“I mean it, mister!”

* * *

Marco’s days slid by with all the speed and remarkability of cooling molasses. March blew half away in a mess of old equipment and long hours, peppered with nasty customers and nastier lectures from Sarge.

It was a Wednesday afternoon, and Marco had just seen the latest batch of the former out the door of the store. He sighed and slumped over the counter, staring at the rack of nails and screws across the aisle and contemplating their many painful uses.

“Yo, Scarface.”

“Hello, ‘Mir.”

She hopped up on the counter and frowned at him for a minute as he stared blankly at the nail display. “What, no dirty looks today? No ‘get your butt off the counter or I’ll tell Sarge’? What, you depressed or something?”

“Or something.” Marco rolled his head over to look at her sideways. “Can I help you?”

She frowned harder and narrowed her eyes. “You’re family.”

“Astute observation. Please, give me another.”

“Shut _up_. Do you wanna go to a party?”

Marco sat up and propped his chin on his hand. “Go on.”

She shrugged. “Judge K’s got her Purim party coming up this weekend, and someone’s got to go for appearances, but Sarge hates her and I hate his bitch-ass white boy son, but if the fam skips it then we’ll never hear the end of it from the biddy dog walkers.”

Marco blinked. “Didn’t Sarge swear off all relation to me?”

Ymir scoffed. “He’s just being a drama queen piss baby. You’re still one of us, deep down.” Marco shuddered, and Ymir grinned. “Besides, he’ll never know. I’ll say I went and it was awful, as usual, and that’ll be that.”

Marco drummed his fingers on his cheekbones. “What’s the catch?”

“Well, it’s a costume party. Purim, y’know.”

Marco had enough Jewish exposure to figure that one out. “That’s it?”

Ymir huffed, looked away. “Think you could… talk about me to- to Krista?” She buried her face in her hands. Marco laughed. “Shut _up_!” she moaned through her fingers.

“’Mir, you don’t have to _bribe_ me to get that. I’d be happy to.”

She looked up, eyes wide. “Really?”

Marco smiled. “Of course.” He traced the ridge of one of his face scars. “But I’ll still go, if you want me to.”

“Oh thank God.” She sat back on her hands. “The party’s awful because it’s a bunch of old rich drunk people and their lame kids, but Judge K’s pretty cool and her house is legit.”

Marco had studied every one of the Honorable Marianne Kirschstein’s rulings for her eighteen years in office since he’d gotten out of jail. He’d figured out that she was ‘pretty cool’. But he didn’t say that. “I think I can manage.”

“Great.” She slapped her knees and jumped to her feet. “I’ll go grab the invite so you’re official and everything.” She gave him a last glare. “And don’t forget about Krista.”

He smiled. “I’ll talk to her about it next time I see her.”

“See that you do.” She left, a blast of cold air hitting Marco in the face from the open door. He chuckled to himself, then sighed and went back to nail staring.

Judge Kirschstein hadn’t been the one involved in his case, but after he’d made his rounds in the hospital, the jail, and the court and heard the gossip about those in charge, he’d wished he was a few months younger so he could have gone through her juvenile court. Maybe if he had, he’d have a different present than being stuck under his uncle’s thumb. Of course, being tried as a minor at all would have been better than his barely-adulthood, but Kirschstein had a history of _listening_ – a remarkable trait in the criminal court system.

He’d wanted to work for the government ever since he saw his first police officer at age three. His brief incarceration hadn’t stopped that, but fired the desire even more – he wanted to change it _all_. However, that month had also virtually barricaded him from all entrance into the positions where that was possible. He’d known he had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting in without some extra luck stumbling his way. A costume party at the house of his judicial role model and potential governor might be that boost. If he could talk to her without his background in the way, maybe he could win her over so hard that she’d hire him despite it all.

He scratched at his right temple and started to hum showtunes.

* * *

Jean had at least enough sense and decency to quit the band in person. Their next scheduled practice was on a Thursday. He didn’t even take his guitar, just his wallet, his helmet, and a scowl. Mikasa was a music theory major and the darling of the building managers for reasons unknown, so they got to use the practice hall of the band building when the university wasn’t using it. Jean got there first and sat on the steps to wait, people watching what was left of campus on a Thursday evening.

Armin walked up a few minutes later, backpack still on and violin case dangling at his side. “What’s up, Jean?”

Jean shrugged and stared at his boots. Armin sighed and leant against the stair railing. “You’re never here before me. Something’s wrong.”

“Who said that?” Armin made a dirty noise deep in his throat. Jean finally looked up to wrinkle his nose and stick his tongue out at him. Armin rolled his eyes and nudged him in the shin with his toe.

“C’mon, talk to me.”

Jean sighed and leant forward onto his knees. “Combo’s kicking my ass.”

“Combo kicks everyone’s ass, but we get through it.” Jean stayed quiet, and Armin’s eyebrows furrowed. “Right?” Jean groaned. “Uh-oh. Not good?”

“Understatement, Ar.” Jean rubbed at his eye. “I gotta back out of the band.”

Armin’s mouth flopped open. “It’s that bad?”

“It’s that bad.” Jean raked a hand through his hair and gripped the back of his neck. “I gotta take another semester. Mom’s… not really happy about it.”

“Well no duh.” Armin set his violin at his feet and sat on the stair below Jean’s feet. He blinked. “Oh, her campaign.”

“Yeah.” Jean’s hand fell heavy in his lap. “It’s just _great_ that the queen of keeping problem kids under control can’t get her own kid out of college on time.”

“Oh dear.” Armin paused. “That really stinks, man.”

Jean breathed in heavy through his nose, let it out. “She’s making me quit this, giving me a curfew, I gotta find a job somewhere, and I gotta sell the Harley.”

“Ouch.” Armin grimaced. Jean shoved himself to his feet and jumped down the four steps to the sidewalk, pacing to hide how his hands were trembling. “You okay about it?”

Jean laughed, the taste of it as vile as the sound. “No, of course I’m not fucking _okay_ about it. She’s making me pay for it now, too, and I’m a goddamned high schooler all over again and it _sucks_ , dude. It sucks giant hairy balls.” He kicked a pinecone into a dirty snowbank, growling as it bounced off the icy center. “But, like, I’m not dead and I’m not homeless, so I guess it could be worse. I’ll live.”

“I hope so.” Armin stood and brushed off his butt. “It’s freezing out here. I’m going in.” Jean frowned at the concrete. “You coming, or am I going to be telling the others?”

Jean slouched and groaned. “Stop with the guilt trips, dude, I’ve been getting that shit all week and I’m gonna punch a bunny, I swear.”

Armin smiled behind his scarf. “First you’d have to find a bunny.”

Jean glared at him. “You’ll do in a pinch, rabbit-hole.”

“Rabbit-hole?”

“You’re a bunny rabbit _and_ an asshole, dude. Dunno how, but you are.”

Armin laughed, nose buried in his scarf, and turned towards the door. “You’re crazy.”

“Yeah, whatever, I’ve gotten worse.”

Armin smiled and shook his head. Jean got to the door first and held it open for him. Armin flashed him a grin as he passed, then paused and snapped his fingers. “Hey, we can still come to the Purim party, right?”

“Uh, duh. As long as Sasha and Connie don’t fuck on my bed again.” They both shuddered and went inside.

* * *

Marco’s first self-indulgent purchase after he’d recovered from the whole hospital-and-jail thing was a Phantom mask from the Internet.

His parents had been musical theater nerds, so he’d absorbed it through osmosis. They’d want him to make the best of any situation, and the only way he could think to do that with a new criminal record and a mangled right half was embrace the Gerard Butler and Michael Crawford inside him. (Two-Face’s split suit would come when he had enough money for a normal suit.) Piece by piece, he’d acquired the bits of the costume, so all he needed to do to complete it all was rent a tux and put it all on. Of course, he’d never had an occasion to do that, but he was grateful to his past self now for the forward thinking.

Krista had Friday off, so she met him during his lunch at the pizza place a few blocks over instead of at her sandwich shop. They split a large veggie pizza over the story of Ymir’s offering.

“It sounds like a fun night,” she said around her slice. “You’re going, right?”

“Yeah, I’d like to say hi to the judge. I think I’ll like her.”

Krista smiled. “I’ve never met her, but I remember her son from freshman English. He was…” She grimaced, then hissed and mimed a cat scratch. Marco burst out laughing. She shrugged. “I mean, I wasn’t friends with him, so I can’t really judge. I used to be a little teacher’s pet, and look at me now.” She grinned.

Marco peeled another piece from the pan. “There’s something for you in this, too.”

“Oh?”

“Well, first, would you mind picking up a tux for me? I need it for my costume.”

She cocked her head. “What costume needs a tux?”

He grinned, covered his scarred half of his face with a hand, and reached out to her, singing, “ _Christine, Christine!_ ” Krista slapped a hand over her smile, eyes wide.

“Oh, you’re terrible.”

“Darling, I’ve been working on this ever since I saw my new face in the mirror.” Krista dropped her hands, mouth quirking up on one side, and knocked her foot against his under the table. He smiled at her with a little shrug.

“Also.” She blinked at him. “She likes you.”

“Really?” She coughed away the squeak in her throat. Marco hid his smile with pizza. “Why?”

He snorted into his pizza, a mushroom flying off onto the table. “You’re seriously asking me that?” Krista’s face turned pink as his laughter bubbled in his chest. “Krista, you’re adorable.”

“Shut up.”

He bit his cheek. “Of course, if you want to pretend I never said anything, I totally-”

“ _No!_ ” Marco jumped. A few people around them looked their way. She stuffed her face with pizza as Marco’s laugh escaped from its bubbles. “I don’t mind, I’ll do whatever she wants to do whenever she’s free.”

Marco smiled. “Awesome. Gimme your phone, I’ll put her number in.” She fumbled it over, then then scarfed down the rest of her slice and Marco’s crusts as he added the contact. He handed it back with a smile and suggested. “Y’know, I bet she’d like coming to a derby of yours.”

Her eyes lit up. “Maybe I could draft her on the team!”

“I’d put that as a definitely, she’s had way too much energy since she dropped the college basketball team.”

Krista blinked. “College _varsity_ basketball?”

Marco winked. “I’ll let you two talk about that.”

“You’re awful.”

“Yeah, but you’re still picking up my tux, right?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: Content warning for drunk vomiting at the tail end of the chapter. I know it grosses me out, so it might gross some of y'all out more. [tumblr](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com)}

Marco came downstairs Saturday evening with his cape, mask, waistcoat, and gloves in a grocery bag, suit coat over his arm and hair slicked back, and found Sarge counting money at the counter. Marco sucked in a breath and sidestepped into an aisle to hide his appearance and clipped a case of nuts and washers with his elbow. He scrambled to catch it, but it tipped forward too fast, drawers clattering to the ground and sending their metal bits scattering down the aisle. Marco’s heart shot to his throat. Across the store, Sarge groaned, the sounds of shuffling paused as he stood, creaking and clomping.

“What was that, criminal?”

Marco stuffed his bag and coat in the shadows of the bottom shelf. “Nothing – the washers fell over, sir, nothing major!”

Sarge stopped at the other end of the aisle, arms crossed and forehead wrinkled as he looked down at the new minefield. “Nothing _major_ , huh?”

“I’ll clean it up, sir.”

Sarge glanced at him and raised his eyebrows. “Got a date, criminal? With who, a car thief?”

Marco stared at his hands. Sarge shrugged. “I don’t care. Whatever slut you’ve hooked can wait. I want this place perfect by opening.”

Marco sucked in both cheeks and bit on them. “Yessir.”

Sarge gave him a look-over that, even from twenty feet away, made Marco’s skin crawl and his ears heat up. Sarge shook his head and went back to the counter, where bill shuffling resumed. Marco sighed and righted the case before getting down on his knees and starting to pick.

He lost track of the time as he sorted washers and nuts by eighth of an inch distinctions and replaced them in their drawers. Somewhere in there, Sarge left without a word, but Marco stayed on the floor, ruining his rented pants on the cheap linoleum. He hadn’t even noticed the light changing from twilight to night until the door opened and the full store lights turned on.

“Yo, Harvey, you still up there?”

He sat back on his heels. “Ymir?”

“The hell? Why’re you down _here_?” she called, her voice coming closer with each word. She stopped behind Marco and whistled. “Well, shit.”

“Yeah.” Marco rubbed the back of his neck. “Sarge saw it, so I have to clean it up by open.”

Ymir scoffed. “Of course you didn’t say you had plans.”

Marco grinned up at her. “I’m a terrible liar, you know that. Besides, he wouldn’t care.” Ymir’s getup was similar to his current one, except his white tuxedo shirt was traded for a simpler, deep purple one. “Did Krista call you?”

Ymir _smiled_. “Hell yeah she did. She’s in the car.”

“That’s great, really.” He sighed and looked at the carnage. He’d barely finished a third of the aisle. “I should give you your Purim invitation so you and her can go have a good time.”

Ymir recoiled. “Dude, no fucking way, you _promised_.”

“There’s no way I could go and still be done by five in the morning. Unless _you’ve_ got a better way.”

Ymir rolled her eyes and turned down a different aisle. “And you call yourself a repairman.” She came back moments later with two magnets, still in their plastic, and handed one to Marco. She gave the leftover magnet a low swoop over the mess and came back with it covered in washers.

“Oh.”

She looked to the ceiling and scraped off the washers onto the shelf next to the case. “Amateur.”

He bowed his head with a smile. “Teach me your ways, oh wise one.”

“Uh-uh. You said you’re going to the party, so you’re going if I have to drive you there myself.” He didn’t say anything, focusing on picking up bits with the magnet. She narrowed her eyes. “You were gonna walk across town rather than ask anyone for a lift, weren’t you.” He shrugged. She moaned. “Unbelievable.”

There was a knock at the door. Ymir sprang to her feet and bounced down the aisle to let in a bundled-up Krista. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Ymir coughed. Marco laughed under his breath. “C’mon, we gotta save Quasipolo here from turning full angel.”

“Quasipolo?”

“Yeah, like, Quasimodo. But Marco. Polo.”

“That’s mean, Ymir.” They got to Marco’s aisle. “Oh my.”

“Yup.” Ymir yanked Marco to his feet by his waistband; he stumbled back into her chest before he recovered his balance. “Seriously, you’re _going_ to the party. I’ll finish this shit up, and Sarge’ll never know.”

Krista smiled at him. “Yeah, we’ll cover it for you.”

Ymir’s head whipped to her. “Uh, you don’t have to stay if you don’t- this’ll probably be super boring, I didn’t want- it’s not really-”

Krista smiled up at her, eyes crinkled. “I don’t mind.”

Marco bit his lip as Ymir sputtered and Krista giggled. Dorks. Krista looked to him. “Boy, I didn’t rent you a tux for you not to wear it! Suit up, c’mon, I wanna see!”

“Oh, fine.” He fetched his hidden costume and put it on, feeling a little silly with the cape, but a little cool, too. When he fumbled with the mask, Krista made him bend down so she could help, hiding the strings in the depths of his hair. She patted his shoulder, and he straightened, arms out to hold the cape away from the tuxedo. Ymir snorted. Krista squealed.

“Oh, you’re perfect! It’s great.”

“The hell’s it supposed to be?”

Krista jabbed her elbow into Ymir’s side. “He’s the Phantom of the Opera, silly!”

“The what of the who?”

Krista gasped. “Oh, we need to fix _that_. But first we need to get this hunk to the party.” Marco and Ymir snorted in unison. “What?”

Ymir grinned and spun her keys around her finger. “C’mon, Tuxedo Mask, let’s get you outta here.”

* * *

Jean was sick of the party by the first half hour mark. His ex-band was late, of course, so his Kenickie outfit lost some of its punch without their context, and he was just some loser with slicked back hair and a leather jacket inside his own house. He hadn’t told anyone but his mom and the band about failing Combo, but neighbors are powerful, vicious gossips, and half of the people in his house knew the story by now. The last time he’d gotten so much sympathy (real or pretend) was when his dad died, and he’d been four. He flitted from room to room to avoid it, ducking under a pair of fairy wings here, around a Red Hat Society throng there. Maybe if he kept moving he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone.

“Jean! There you are!”

Damn it. Connie and Sasha had caught him in the doorway, Connie draped in yellow and orange with an acrylic blue arrow painted on his head and Sasha with her hair in a braid and wearing a blue wrap dress – wait.

“Aw, come on!” Connie laughed and thumped him on the shoulder. “You could’ve at least _told_ me we were changing the theme!”

“Sorry bro, Sasha spilled barbeque sauce on her Pink Lady jacket and we had to improvise. Last minute thing, no big.” Sasha shrugged with a smile, then stepped into his space to fiddle with his collar.

“Besides you’re not _that_ weird on your own.” She smiled and ruffled his gelled hair. “You could do a killer James Dean right now.” Jean frowned and batted her hand away from his hair.

“I could’ve at least _tried_ to be Sokka, okay?”

Sasha laughed and gave him a quick hug around the middle. “You’re too sweet, Jean.”

Connie snorted. “Yeah, like a Sour Patch Kid maybe.” Sasha rolled her eyes and backed away. “The terrible three are around somewhere, and they still match you if it matters that much to you.” He grabbed her wrist. “C’mon, let’s let him wallow in his loserness and go find the food.”

“Oh my God, do you think Judge K made latkes?”

“Of _course_ she made latkes, she’s Judge K.” Connie glared over his shoulder before they turned the corner out of the room. Really? It’s not like he ever _told_ Sasha to flirt with him. Or encouraged it in any manner whatsoever. God, his friends _sucked_.

He slumped against the wall, arms crossed, and watched the party people having a grand old time around him. No one was stumbling drunk yet, but he wouldn’t be surprised if half of these people pre-gamed and were well on their way to that ideal Purim state by now. He was stone cold sober, and that needed to be changed ASAP.

His mom knew her stuff after all the years of this party and hired a bartender to manage the alcohol intake, who set up camp on the pretty marble kitchen island and had a line. She’d also been hiring the same guy for several years now, and he and Jean had an agreement.

Jean twisted through the kitchen and came around the island to his side, rifling through the bottle array. “How’s it going, Mike?”

Mike glanced down at him from his full foot height advantage. “Rich people can _drink_ , did you know that?”

“Yeah, none of us got enough love in our childhoods.” He found the Malibu rum bottle he’d hidden there earlier on its side under the lip of the counter and extracted it. “Need a hand, or can I go drink away the pain?”

Mike chuckled. “Kid, your life ain’t _that_ bad.” He jerked his head to the side. “Hand me the pineapple juice and get out of here.” Jean’s mouth twitched as he did as requested. “And take a glass, you can at least _pretend_ you’re not drinking straight from the bottle.” Jean smiled, face stiff. He snatched a tumbler from the waiting line and slipped out the back door onto the cold and blessedly empty patio.

* * *

Marco’s pickup job had already put him behind schedule, so by the time they’d gone to the ABC and picked up the customary gift of alcohol that was mandatory on Purim, Marco was a full hour and a half late.

The cars lined the street in front, extending three houses down on either side, and this wasn’t exactly a packed neighborhood. Krista whistled as Ymir stopped in the middle of the street in front of the party house.

“All right, you don’t need to stay too long, just enough to say your name a few times and turn in the invite.”

Marco frowned. “My name?”

Ymir let out a long, exasperated groan. “Just say you’re with Sarge’s family! If someone asks where we are, just lie and say we’re around somewhere, God.” She turned in the driver’s seat to glare at him. “And _call me_ when you wanna leave, okay? No martyring yourself walking home ten miles in March at night.” Krista nodded from the passenger seat.

Marco smiled. “Sure thing, Miri.”

Ymir rolled her eyes and turned around. “Get out of my car, loser.”

Marco slid out of the backseat, cape over his arm and tequila in hand. Krista shouted through the open door, “And stop smiling! The Phantom doesn’t smile!” Marco ducked his head and set off up the car labyrinth towards the loud laughter and music pouring from every orifice.

The foyer was huge, three stories tall, gorgeous, and packed with people. A few of them looked his way as he walked in, but lost interest when he set the invitation (more of a flyer) on a stack of them already gathered on an endtable. He looked around for someone, anyone, he knew, but wasn’t remotely surprised when he didn’t find them. He sighed and picked a door to venture through.

Really, the whole place felt like a college house party, except most of the people had gray in their hair, and the alcohol was in glass, not red plastic. Marco hadn’t had a drink in four years, but with the smell of it so heavy in the air, the tequila bottle in his hand was gaining weight to match.

Someone stumbled into him - a little blond guy who did _not_ look old enough to have whiskey breath, dressed in a sweater vest and cords. Marco caught him by the elbows. “Whoa there, you okay?”

The kid beamed up at him, then gasped. “Oh my God I _love_ your costume!” He rapped his knuckles on Marco’s mask, laughing when he jumped. “That’s so cool!”

“Armin!” An Asian girl in pedal pushers and a teased beehive stalked up and took the blond kid off Marco’s hands - and the half-empty tumbler off of Armin’s. She just barely smiled at Marco. “Sorry about that, he’s not usually like this.”

Marco laughed. “It’s all right, really.” Armin smiled at him, then at beehive girl.

“Isn’t his costume _wicked_?” He hiccupped. “Or, well, not _Wicked_ , but, like, cool, right?”

She patted his back. “Yes, it is.” She stuck out her hand at Marco. “I’m Mikasa, by the way.”

“Oh, uh, I’m Marco.” They shook hands, and she squinted at him.

“I can’t tell - have I seen you before? You’re not one of Jean’s friends, are you?”

“Oh, no, I’m actually - Ymir Shadis’s cousin. I came with her.”

Mikasa blinked. “How unfortunate.”

He smiled, shoulders loosening of their own will. “I manage. I’m- just visiting, for now. Hopefully I won’t be here too long.”

She nodded. “I was sure I knew all two of Jean’s friends anyway, but you never know in a mask like that.”

“Oh yeah?” He reached up to trace the edge of his mask at the hinge of his jaw where it didn’t quite cover all his scars.

“Yeah, you look really really _really_ good,” Armin slurred, leaning on Mikasa’s side. She rolled her eyes, and why did a tuxedo have so many layers?

“I should get this one to a chair,” she said. “Nice meeting you.”

“Oh-” She stopped and flicked her bangs out of her eyes. “I actually just got here – do you know where, ah, Dr. Kirschstein is? I’d like to say hello.”

She shrugged. “The judge is all over the place here, so I have no idea. The kitchen’s in the back left of the house, though. It’s probably a good place to start.”

He smiled – not too much. “Thanks a lot.” She nodded and dragged Armin to a free spot on the couch across the room. Marco took a breath and set off for the back left part of the house.

Rich people had _way_ too much money for their houses. Even though only the judge and her son – Jean, apparently – lived here, they could probably house an Olympic village in here. He got a few more compliments on his outfit on the trek, and stopped a few times to drop the Shadis name and ask about the judge. No one seemed to have seen her in the last few minutes. Just how big _was_ this house?

It took him half an hour to get to the kitchen. By then, he was burnt out and jittery, too many people in every room and not a quiet place anywhere. His mouth was dry, but when he handed over the tequila to the bartender (a bartender at a _house party_ ) with an apology, he didn’t ask for anything in return.

The abnormally tall bartender shrugged and took it. “You sure you don’t want anything?”  

Marco shook his head and tapped his mask. “Can’t really drink anything with this.” The bartender smiled.

“Smart kid.”

Marco shrugged and stepped out of the way for a middle-aged Spiderman to order. “Do you know where the judge is? I haven’t seen her yet.”

“No idea.” He frowned at Marco and jerked his hand towards the glass door behind him. “Her son’s outside, though.”

“Oh.” It was nice and chilly outside. “Well, I guess I could do that.”

The bartender handed off Spiderman’s drink and poured a tall glass of water. “Do me a favor and make him drink this, okay?”

Oh no. “No problem.” Marco took the glass and went to the glass door, dark with night, and shoved it open, stepping out into the welcome night wind.

* * *

Jean’s solitary stupor was interrupted by a tall caped shadow coming in from the house, bringing the din from the kitchen with him. Jean turned on the patio railing to look out over the backyard, half-empty bottle of Malibu dangling from his hand. The door shut, and the quiet of the night returned.

“Uh. Jean?”

Yeah, he had no idea whose voice that was, but he was also rather drunk. He threw back another swallow of rum. The new person sighed and walked closer, leaning on the railing a few steps from him.

“C’mon, the bartender wants you to drink this.” A glass appeared in front of him in a white glove. He grumbled, but took it, downing it in three gulps. “Are you… all right?”

Jean made a dirty noise in the back of his throat. “What, did m’mom send you?”

“I’ve never met your mom, actually.” The new guy laughed low. “It’s just, y’know, people don’t drink half a bottle of rum without something going on.”

Jean huffed and set the glass next to the clean tumbler a few kicks away from his feet and ran his now free hand through his hair. It was probably sticking up everywhere, but whatever. His eyes hadn’t been focusing for an hour, and he couldn’t see for shit sober, so when he finally looked up at the stranger, all he saw was dark skin, dark hair, and a white half-mask. He frowned. “Why’re you wearin’ a mask?”   

A flash of white teeth. “It’s part of my costume.” Jean scowled and tugged at it once before the stranger slapped a hand on it, getting his fingers in the process. His breath hit Jean’s face, a sauna in the March night. “Don’t do that.”

“’Kay.” Jean’s hand fell back to his side, and he tripped a little before plopping down on the freezing wood of the porch, curling around the rum bottle. The stranger shifted on his feet for a moment before sitting next to him, just close enough that Jean could feel his body heat.

Jean knocked back another swallow of rum. The stranger coughed. “Think I could have that?”

“No, g’get your own.”

“Come on, don’t make me get up.”

Jean groaned and handed it over, rubbing his eyes into his knees. His face was cold. Maybe. Glass clinked on wood.

“D’you not like parties?”

“Hate ‘em.” Jean moaned and twisted his cheek against denim. “But I have’ta put up with ‘em ‘cause ‘m already in deep shit n’I can’ make it worse.” He hiccupped. A hand slid over his back, pressure against the leather barrier. “M’failing Combo,” he mumbled.

“Combo?”

“S’a class. It sucks.” The hand kept rubbing, but he couldn’t _feel_ it, ugh. He shrugged off his jacket and let it fall between his back and the railing. When the hand didn’t come back, he gave his best glare at the white mask until it chuckled and the hand came back, hot and heavy. He closed his eyes and moaned.

“Failing doesn’t sound like fun.”

Jean snorted, spit flying over the wood. “Y’ever failed a class?”

“No, but I didn’t go to college, so I didn’t have a lot of chances.”

Jean squinted. “Wha’, really?”

“Yup.”

“Tha’s weird.” Another low chuckle. Jean laid his temple on one knee and faced the sound of it, eyes still closed.

“Not really. Although I’d like to go, at some point.”

“Mmm.” The hand pressed down his spine, and he arched into it. “You’re really nice. D’I know you?”

The stranger chuckled. “No, I’m new here.”

“Mkay, good, ‘m glad ‘m not jus’ a dumbass who forgo’ your name.”

The hand paused. “Should I go get you some more water?”

“No’if it means you’re stoppin’.” A laugh, quiet and deep, ran through the air and down the hand digging into his T-shirt. Jean shivered.

“You should put your jacket back on if you’re not going back inside.”

“Can’t feel anythin’ with i’, so, no.”

Another deep laugh. “You’re kind of crazy, aren’t you?” Jean shrugged and flexed his fingers where they gripped his ankles. “I wasn’t sure if you’d live up to your reputation.”

“I have a rep? Wha’, do I eat bunnies or somethin’?” This time the laugh was loud, head thrown back, and Jean grinned and laughed, too, ending on a string of hiccups, bubbling out alongside the laughter.

“I should get you more water,” the stranger said, moving to stand up. Jean fumbled for him, hands slipping on his sleeve, before catching hold of two of his fingers.

“No, stay!” The stranger curled his whole hand around his for a second before sitting back down.

“All right.”

They talked, the stranger still rubbing circles between Jean’s shoulder blades, Jean still curled in on himself. They talked about school, they talked about Cheez-Its, they talked about friends, they talked about the future. The stranger took off his mask at some point, but Jean still couldn’t see anything much besides vague color blobs so it didn’t matter much. Jean’s alcohol flutter settled deep in the pit of his stomach as the stranger talked quietly about wanting to be a lawyer to help people. Jean barked a laugh.

“Trust me, lawyers don’do shit ‘round here but look out for ‘emselves, or if they don’, I don’ know ‘em.”

“Maybe I can change that.”

“Talkin’ big there, huh?” Jean whole body shivered violently, and he was _cold_. He pitched over into the stranger’s heated side, wrapping an arm loosely over his waist. “You’re warm.” When the stranger laughed this time, he felt it all over his face and his chest and his belly, and it felt really, _really_ nice. The stranger draped something warm around his shoulders. Jean sighed and melted. “I like you.”

“Y’know, I think you’ve said that a few times.”   

Jean’s head was starting to throb. “What’s your name?”   

A body chuckle. “Marco.”

“Th’s a good name.” Jean’s face squished together against his headache, coming in with the force of a hurricane. “Ow.”

The chest beneath his cheek shifted. “You okay?”

“Head hurts.” And his stomach was pretty heavy, too. _Ugh._

“You really should have let me get you water earlier.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He needed to piss, too, but that could wait until he felt like standing.

“C’mon, let’s get you up.” Jean moaned a protest, but Marcus – Mark – whatever his name was, took away the warm thing around his shoulders and stood him up in stages, careful to keep his stability. The world still spun, though, and he felt it coming. He slapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh dear, okay, turn around-”

Marius (?) got him looking over the railing just in time for the rum to come back up and go visit the azaleas. The hand came back to rub his back and his neck, just lightly enough, as Jean retched into the bushes eight feet below. He shushed him, brushed Jean’s hair from his forehead, wiped at the sweat gathering there. When the retching was done, Jean wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and shook against the railing.

“I didn’… ge’ any n’you, di’I?”

Marlin chuckled. “No, I’m all clean. You did fine.”

“Good, don’ wanna fuck this up, too.”

The hand paused. “This?”

“Yeah, dude, fuckin’ like you and shit.”

“That’s… nice.”

“Nice?” Jean laughed, still shaking from throwing up. “That all you got?”

“Jean.” Mario turned his head with two fingers. This close, Jean could see his eyes, black in the night but probably chocolate or hazel or maple syrup some shit. “You’re drunk.”

“So?”

“You only like me because I gave you backrubs.” His teeth flashed white in his face. “You need to drink a lot of water and go to bed, and then regret this in the morning.”

“Hey. Not true.”

“Yes true.” Marcelo bent down and picked up Jean’s jacket from the floor and draped it around his shoulders. “You’re a nice guy, I think, no matter what else people say. But you’re kind of messed up.” He snapped together the collar, hands lingering. “Maybe…” He sighed. “I should go.”

“What?” Jean grabbed his lingering hands, gloves off at some point. “Martin!”

He hissed. “Yeah, yeah I’m definitely going.” He pulled his hands away. “It was nice meeting you, Jean.”

“Th’hell you think you’re…” Jean pressed a hand to his collarbone, the familiar sour rising in his chest. He fell over the railing again, vomit bitter against his throat.

By the time he was done, Marcos had vanished.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: Warning labels for gratuitous A:TLA references and texting. [character designs](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com/post/91412773741) [Marco's scars](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com/post/91482481131) [tumblr](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com/)}

Jean’s head had probably hurt worse before, but the morning after Purim, he really didn’t give a shit. Right then his head was in a vice, throbbing and dislocated from the rest of his body – which felt like shit, too, slimy and dirty and itchy. He moved a little, but stopped when another wave of nausea broke in his throat.

He lost track of time as he moaned in his bed, still in his jeans, and fought back the wretches. He stumbled to his bathroom a few times when he lost to them, but when he was done and the toilet flushed, he crawled back into his bed to shiver and weep. It took four or five good rotations of that before he could really open his eyes and see the full water bottle waiting for him on the nightstand. He drew it under the covers with him and slurped at it, still trembling from his most recent puking episode and only marginally better.

When he slithered his way through the shadowed areas of the house down to the damned naturally lit kitchen, it was lunchtime. His mom was at the stove, hair pinned up and humming. She turned at his entry and smiled, more blinding than the sun outside. “Morning, sunshine!”

He crept to the counter and pulled himself onto one of the barstools there, face planting into the marble. “Shut up.”

She laughed, and he covered his ears. “Oh, darling.” She didn’t force him into conversation after that, though, just hummed and cooked. He pressed his cheek to the cold granite and breathed.

The double tap of a plate being set down at his elbow. He cracked an eye to find two grilled cheese sandwiches and a pile of Cheez-Its there, followed by a glass of water. A soft hand patted his back. He frowned.

“Hey.” A second set of lunch joined his, followed by his mother taking the stool next to him. “You don’t remember a dude last night in a cape and a mask, do you?”

“Sweetheart, it was a costume party. There were lots of capes and masks.”

“A white mask. I think he was fancy, not like a superhero schtick or anything. About my age, I think.”

She hummed as he reached for a sandwich. “Doesn’t ring a bell. What was his name?”

Mar… something.” He bit into the sandwich - she’d used at least three slices of cheese. He moaned and sat up a little, temple on palm. “Definitely started with an M.”

“And I’m supposed to remember someone based on a costume and half a name?” She sighed and tore the crust off her own sandwich. “We had over two hundred people in this house last night, I can’t remember _everyone’s_ name and outfit.” She sniffed at the air. “Speaking of. Does it smell funky in here to you?”

He popped the last of sandwich number one in his mouth and inhaled. “Mebbe a lil’?”

She shook her head and stood. “Someone probably spilled something on the carpet. I’ll go look around.” She took her sandwich with her. “Oh, and hurry up and come back from the dead, my interns are coming to help you clean in an hour.”

“Abuse of power, Mom!” She waved him off.

“Maybe, but I’ll write them all fabulous rec letters.”

He shook his head and started on sandwich number two, staring vacantly out the glass patio door as he ate. He blinked and squinted.

Without a thought, he went outside in his bare feet and crossed to the railing, half-eaten sandwich in his hand. There, abandoned on the treated hardwood, was a white mask, cut for half a face and strings dangling, and a pair of white costume gloves. He crouched down and picked the mask up with his free hand, turning it over. No markings, no name. Just a piece of plastic.

He palmed the mask, two fingers through the eyehole, and held his sandwich with his teeth to get the gloves. He breathed in through his nose and nearly dropped the grilled cheese.

He shoved the rest of it in his mouth and rushed to swallow, standing and looking over the railing, head swirling a little at the sudden motion. There, buried in the leafless azaleas, was the air conditioning unit, splattered with Chex Mix and Malibu coconut rum, spurting and hissing.

His face burned. He was _never_ owning up to that one.

* * *

Marco technically worked seven days a week, since he was always on hand at the store even when he wasn’t on the schedule, but he considered Sunday something like a day off. The common man didn’t like having dirty, dust-covered repairmen spreading grease and soot through their house on a Sunday afternoon, and the downtown shopping district woke up late. He had the morning to himself and, sometimes, if he was lucky, the afternoon.

Today was not his lucky day. He spent the morning cleaning his apartment on Sarge’s orders, replayed the confusing, disappointing, kind of exhilarating events of last night. He hadn’t even seen the judge, but he’d spent hours with her drunk son, which sounded like a bad place to be but he’d loved it. Jean was a bite of a jalapeño, bitter and sour, and – Marco’s breath in shook – Jean _liked_ him. He’d been impossibly intoxicated, sure, but it still had to be based on some truth, right? Marco pulled his fingers down his hair, crown to the split ends over his burned cheekbones. He giggled, standing alone in his apartment with a broom in his hand.

It was pleasant and tickling, being liked for who he was. Jean had been blind by darkness and rum, ignorant to the scars of his past. An egg of warmth had cracked over his heart last night; he’d woken up with summer bursting in his bones before he’d even recalled why. Who cares if he’d lost his mask in the process? He could get another one. He leaned on the broom handle (ruining the bristles) and smiled, breathing in lemon Pledge and coffee.

“Criminal! Get down here!”

The smile fell from his face. He swept up his half-formed dust pile and tossed it, hung up the broom and dustpan on their hook on the wall, and shoved his feet in his boots before going down into the store.

“Good morning, sir!”

Sarge sneered from the counter, Bertl hovering behind and over him. “Maybe to you.” He slapped a clipboard onto the counter. Marco’s heart plummeted. “Got a call from one of my neighbors that one of their irresponsible party guests threw up in their outside unit last night, and it’s spreading its stench through her house.” Marco wrinkled his nose, then widened his eyes. _No way_. “I’m sending you and Tall’n’Sweaty here to clean it up for her. So smarten up!”

Bertl made a face behind Sarge’s back, and Marco turned away before his grin could show.

He and Bertl got each other in a perfect coworker way. They could talk about nonsense while driving to and from jobs and keep their day filled, but if one of them wasn’t up for that, the radio silence in the van never turned awkward. Today, Marco stared out the window, basking in the sun of his secret and barring it inside with his teeth. Bertl drove and whistled along to the radio.

The Kirschsteins’ street looked different in the daylight, the fortress of cars disbanded to expose the evergreen-lined drives leading to houses that were almost mansions. Bertl pulled up in the Kirschsteins’ wide open driveway and parked. “Ready?”

“As always.”

Marco let Bertl lead the way to the front door, eyes flitting over the landscaping and dormant lawn. Bertl pounded on the door (in this business, you learned to shake the house down or go home).

“Just a moment!” A woman’s voice called through the wood. The handle jittered, and the heavy cherry door opened on a smiling, middle-aged woman. She looked up at Bertl, eyes crinkling. “Oh, thank heavens you’re here. C’mon, it’s in the back.”

Marco grinned. “Is it that bad?”

Her eyes flicked over his face, down the right side, but her smile didn’t falter. “I’ll take you through the house so you can smell for yourselves.” She stepped back to let them in. “Sorry about the mess - my interns were supposed to come over and clean, but I’m not _that_ cruel of a boss.” She smiled again before leading them through the house, paper plates and glasses on every flat surface. Even without the horde of people and the loud music, the house seemed full, flooded with natural light from its tall windows and walls painted varying shades of yellow and cream.

“You have a lovely house, ma’am.” Bertl’s big nose wrinkled. “But I understand your problem.”

It didn’t hit you in the face as you walked in the door, like the scent of pot at a college party, but there was definitely a sour bile tinge to the air. Marco coughed.

“It didn’t start off this bad,” the judge said, “but it’s gotten worse since I called Sarge, I swear. My son’s been hiding outside, and he _hates_ the cold.”

Marco swallowed. “Your son?”

“He’s a trip and a half, but he’s promised not to bother you boys while you work. Anyway, I hate to put you out on a Sunday, but I have a campaign meeting here tomorrow and it’s almost unlivable now.” They reached the kitchen, fifteen degrees colder than the rest of the house from the open windows and propped door. “Jean! The repairmen are here!”

“Fucking finally!” a raspy voice yelled back from the patio. Marco sucked in a little breath. The judge tsked.

“Please stop cursing around other people, I have an image to maintain.” She led Bertl and Marco out onto the porch, where Jean was sitting at the wrought iron table.

Marco tried not to stare, but - Jean _liked_ him. He was curled up in an iron chair, textbook on his blanketed knees, wearing the same leather jacket as last night, collar popped against the breeze, ski cap pulled down over his ears so his bleached bangs fluffed out the front. He glanced up from his book at them, eyes shooting up to Bertl’s head and over to Marco’s scars, and looked away. “Sup.”

The judge put her hands on her hips. “You’re supposed to be a charming young man.”

He shrugged, sharp, startling Marco - just like his cousin. Jean scowled at the textbook. He was _embarrassed_. “Yeah, well. Sucks.”

She groaned and gestured to the wooden stairs leading to the backyard lawn. “Ignore him. It’s this way.” She only had her house shoes on, so she stayed on the patio as they walked around the side of the patio to the bank of hibernating azaleas.

“When I find out who had the nerve to do this I’m gonna give him five to ten,” she said with a light smile. Marco bit his cheek. “Anyway, you boys do your thing. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me, so just yell. Or make Jean get off his butt and do it for you.”

“ _Mom!_ ”

She laughed and pushed away from the railing, teasing her son more as she walked away. Bertl and Marco smiled at each other, then got down to work.

Drunk Jean had done quite a number on the unit. The cold air muffled the stink somewhat, but liquid in a machine was never good. It had sunk down into the fan, which meant that Marco and Bertl had to tear it apart on the lawn and clean it up on its own. They took turns running back to the van for supplies and disassembling it all on a tarp while Jean and his mother jabbered at each other a floor above.

On one of Bertl’s trips back, Marco sat in the prickly dead grass and looked out over the perfect, expensive backyard, picking at a scar on his wrist.

“Hey, uh, Mom?”

Marco froze. “Yes, dear?”

“You, uh, remember how I asked about that guy in the mask last night?” Marco gripped his wrist hard.

“What about him?”

“Well, I found his mask on the patio this morning.” Marco’s stomach seized his heart. “Does it look familiar now?”

The judge laughed. “Darling, that’s from _The Phantom of the Opera_! I thought you’d be able to recognize that, I’ve got the DVD around somewhere.”

“Oh.”

“But, no, seeing the mask doesn’t help, I still didn’t see any Phantom last night.” The rumble of a metal chair on wood. Marco’s arms were shaking from the force of his grip; he pried his fingers away. “To be honest, you should probably just give it up as a lost cause. Who knows who you’d _really_ find under there.” Jean grunted, a gross little sound. “Look, I love you to bits, but you couldn’t pick a good friend to save your life. None of those band friends of yours are going anywhere, and no one you’ve ever brought home was worth the time of day. I’d put money down that this Phantom of yours would be just the same.” Marco tugged his hair in front of his face hard enough to pull out strands and stared at the cold, dead grass.

“Ugh, shut up, you _know_ the only reason my friends suck is ‘cause my grade’s always sucked and I haven’t exactly been able to branch out in this hick town. Mar-whatever wasn’t _from_ here, so that’s an auto-plus! And-”

“Jean.” She sighed, long and _tired_ , and Jean trailed off. “You said that Armin boy would be different, too, and he broke a lamp last night.”

“Wait. He did? Was it ugly?”

“ _Not the point_. I thought I told you they were off limits from now on.”

“They’re all I got! What’d you want me to do, un-invite them the day before the party? Am I supposed to sit around and never talk to anyone until I graduate?”

“First you need to graduate, bucko, remember that. I just need you to be a bit smarter about who you spend time with – at least until November.”

Bertl came around the side of the house, two buckets of rags on one arm. “Okay, I think I got ‘em all, but who knows, we might have to shred the curtains.” Marco tried to smile and took a bucket off his hands. The Kirschsteins’ volume fell away, the judge mumbling something about coffee and Jean going quiet. Marco ignored Bertl’s drawn eyebrows and focused on work.

* * *

Jean wasn’t gonna stay in his house and get bitched at any longer. He told his mom he’d be back by dark and got the fuck out of there, leaving her to the clearing house (the AC guys had wrapped up a while ago, thank fuck, he didn’t need any more reminders of _that_ ). He rode towards downtown, bare trees and leaf litter hemming in the road that connected his ritzy-ass neighborhood to civilization.

Why were there a dude _walking_ along the side of the road?

Jean squinted through the visor at the approaching body. Gray jacket, shaggy hair, jeans – it could be anyone. He slowed down a little as he passed and glanced over to a face full of twisted skin – the shorter AC guy? Why was he walking back from his house? Where was the tall dude?

The road was empty, and the guy’s jacket looked thin. Jean swerved around and idled in front of him.

The AC guy looked up, eyes wide. Jean flipped up his visor.

“Hey, Prince Zuko. You get banished from the van or something?”

His face relaxed, and he grinned – lopsided and white. “The Firelord sent Bertl off across the land with express instructions not to take me, so…” He shrugged. “I like walking.”

“Like hell you do.” Jean tore off his helmet and held it out. “C’mon, I’ll take you wherever you’re going.”

Zuko grimaced. “Honestly, I wasn’t going anywhere.”

Jean grinned. “Neither was I. We can go nowhere together.”

Zuko shifted on his feet, staring at the helmet. “You sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. Now get on before I run out of gas.” Zuko shook his hair to hide his grin and finally took the helmet, twisting it a little on his head for a good fit. “Just step over the back and put your feet here.” Jean kicked the appropriate bit of metal for the (little used) passenger footrest. Zuko did as ordered, hands barely touching Jean’s waist.

“So where are we going?”

Jean shrugged and spun the bike towards town again, squinting his eyes against the wind and laughing when Zuko jumped and clutched his jacket harder.

He took the long way around, driving through wooded neighborhoods and little family farms. Zuko got comfortable fast behind him, arms barely clasped around him and helmet knocking into Jean’s shoulder blades as he looked around. The wind tore and chafed at Jean’s skin, but it couldn’t blow the tilt away from his mouth.

Before too long, though, Jean’s ears were tingling and burning from the cold and Zuko was shivering against his back. Jean turned towards downtown and stopped in front of the pizza place there, killing the engine and keeping the bike still as Zuko peeled himself off and struggled out of the helmet, breathing hard and staring at the bike as he fluffed out his helmet hair.

“I want one.”

Jean laughed and dismounted, kicking out the stand. “Well, it’s sort of for sale, if you’re interested.”

Zuko blinked, hand halfway through his hair so Jean could actually see his face. “Really?”

“Yeah. Long story.”

Zuko sighed and shook his hair back in front of his eyes, holding the helmet out to him. “I could never afford it.”

Jean frowned and hung the helmet from a handlebar. _Why? What’s keeping you?_ “Well, c’mon, let’s eat. I’ll buy.”

Zuko shrugged and grinned, lopsided to his unburnt half. “Nah, I’m not really hungry.”

“Bull freaking shit.”

“No, really, I should just go and get out of your hair. Thanks for the ride.”

Jean caught his elbow as he tried to breeze past (Damn this guy had some _arms_. _Did he work out or was it manual labor? What’s his favorite hair color?_ ) “Hey. You might be trying to be a little saint or something, but that ain’t gonna fly with me.” This close, Jean could feel the heat of his breath and actually see his eyes - dark brown and almond, his right one constricted by scars. _Did it hurt? How old is that? What the hell happened to this kid?_ “You’re… you’re gonna come with me if I have to hogtie ya, got it?”

Zuko smiled, eyes hooded. “Is that a challenge?”

“Just-!” Jean’s mouth snapped shut, and he looked at the pavement. “Please.”

“All right.” Zuko took Jean’s hand off his arm, dropped it. “Lead the way.”

They went in and got a table, Zuko smiling at the waitress while Jean shrugged out of his jacket and panicked – what the hell was he thinking, forcing a stranger into food? His mom was gonna _slay_ him. He could be a child molester or a serial killer or a drug dealer or _anything_. _Just what the hell was he?_

The waitress left to get them water. Zuko smiled at him – he was missing a tooth, one of his lower ones. _How’d you lose that?_  

“What the hell happened to your face?” Zuko snorted and chuckled, quiet and low. Jean’s face heated up, and he pressed his frozen fingers to his cheeks. “Ah, hell, that was fucking rude, I’m sorry.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed into slits, still smiling. “I spoke out of turn in a war meeting and my father needed to teach me a lesson.”

“Oh. My God.” Zuko laughed, leaning forward on his elbows, head bowed, shoulders shaking. “You… you’re pulling my leg.” Zuko wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, still laughing. Jean scowled and sat back in his chair, arms crossed. “I hate you.”

Zuko looked up at him, eyes glinting through his hair. _Why haven’t you got a haircut in fucking years?_ “To be fair, you asked for it.”

Jean stuck his tongue out at him. “Fine, be that way.”

The waitress came back with their waters. “You two ready to order yet?”

“Uh-” Jean blinked at Zuko. “Maybe?”

“You okay with vegetarian?”

“I can be.” _I am now_.

“Killer.” Zuko smiled at the waitress. _Do you smile at all the girls like that?_ “Large one of those, please?”

“Sure thing.” She jotted it down and flashed them both a quick grin before turning to another party. Jean grinned across the table.

“Come here often?”

Zuko rubbed his right cheek against his shoulder and shrugged, worrying the skin of his right wrist. “I live around the corner, so, yeah.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyebrow (he only had half of the right one, how wicked was that). “I really do appreciate this.”

Jean shrugged, shook his head to resettle his hair. “It’s no big, I don’t mind. You made my house stop smelling like shit, so.” Zuko’s eyes crinkled, although his mouth stayed neutral. His expressions were harder to figure out when one half didn’t move as much as the other, but that just made him more compelling. _Do you even know that your face does that?_ “What?”

“Nothing.”  Zuko wrapped his fingers in his bangs. “So, what’s the deal with the bike?”

Jean groaned and sat back hard in his chair, staring at the ceiling, papered with old movie posters. “I’m a dumbass who can’t finish college on time, and Mom’s making me sell the bike for next semester’s tuition. It’s all awful and nothing is good in the world anymore and I hate it.”

Zuko raised his (complete) eyebrow. “Your life’s not that bad.”

Jean blinked at him. _What shit have you been through to get that tone?_ “Well. Okay, yeah, sure. But it still sucks.”

“Mmm.” Zuko sat back and crossed his arms, pursing his lips and raising both his eyebrows. “Lay it on me.”

“Um.” Jean gripped his neck with both hands, fingertips barely crossing at his spine. “You probably don’t want to listen to me jabber about how shitty my life is, it’s okay.” Zuko smiled, lips barely parting.

“I’m a pretty good listener. I don’t mind.”  

“Oh, well, if you insist.” Zuko’s white teeth showed a little more; Jean rubbed at his ear and began.

* * *

Marco’s day ended much like it had begun - cleaning and giggling in his own spot of sunlight in his apartment. The sun had set two hours ago, of course, but he didn’t even notice, too busy hiding in the memory of Jean’s orange-gold eyes in the yellow glow of the pizza place’s parking lot.

Jean had paid for the pizza like he promised, and also the chocolate pie they got when they were still there an hour after the pizza was gone. He’d picked off the mushrooms and the onions, complaining the whole way, but that was just how Jean worked, Marco found. He was still the same person he’d been last night, but his eyes were clear and his smile came quick and he didn’t cling to Marco like a teddy bear. His face showed every thought, fluid and wide, as he complained about the weather and his mother’s campaign and people who didn’t use their turn signals. Marco didn’t even mind when Jean accidentally took his last slice.

When they’d split for the day, Jean had shoved his phone in Marco’s hands and ordered him to add his number so they could ‘do shit together’. Marco had texted himself, beaming at the offer, and hadn’t stopped beaming since.

He dumped an armful of clothes that’d been hanging over a chair into his hamper. His pocket buzzed.

From: Ymir  
YO WHY DIDNT YOU TELL ME K WAS A ROLLER DERBY QUEEN  
Sun, Mar 13, 8:21 pm

Marco chuckled. As he’d expected, Ymir and Krista’s date last night had turned out golden, even though it’d been spent sorting nuts and washers in the store. He chewed on his tongue as he tapped out a reply on his ancient flip phone, the only thing he could afford.

From: Freckled Bitch  
Lol. You never asked. You w her now?  
Sun, Mar 13, 8:26 pm

From: Ymir  
IM AT HER PRACTICE RIGHT NOW THIS IS HOT AS FUCK IMMA STRANGLE YOU FOR KEEPING THIS FROM ME  
Sun, Mar 13, 8:30 pm

From: Freckled Bitch  
Watch out, she wants to draft you for the team ;)  
Sun, Mar 13, 8:38 pm

From: Ymir  
I WOULD FOLLOW THIS HOT BITCH INTO THE FUCKING SUN  
Sun, Mar 13, 8:41 pm

Marco rubbed at his temple with two knuckles, still grinning as he shoved his phone back into his pocket. He should do his laundry, but the laundromat was closing in twenty minutes, so that was out. Tomorrow, then.

He frowned at his fridge from across the apartment – he hadn’t had time to clean it out in weeks, there was probably mold civilizations learning agriculture in there by now. His pocket buzzed, and he decided they could discover the wheel before he wiped them out.

From: Jean  
Yo prince zuko whatchu up to  
Sun, Mar 13, 8:45 pm

Marco snorted, rubbing at one eye with a fist. Did Jean even _know_ his real name?

He blinked. Actually…

From: Prince Zuko Of The Fire Nation  
Not much just cleaning. What about you?  
Sun, Mar 13, 8:52 pm

From: Jean  
Sexy.  
Sun, Mar 13, 8:52 pm

From: Jean  
You wanna do an activity together?  
Sun, Mar 13, 8:55 pm

From: Prince Zuko Of The Fire Nation  
Do an *activity* together?  
Sun, Mar 13, 9:01 pm

From: Jean  
Yes!  
Sun, Mar 13, 9:01 pm

From: Jean  
At a place!  
Sun, Mar 13, 9:02 pm

From: Jean  
For some time!  
Sun, Mar 13, 9:02 pm

Marco laid down on his bed and curled up under his blanket, clutching his pillow to his chest and tangling his toes together. What a stupid _nerd_ , asking him out with an _Avatar_ line.

From: Prince Zuko Of The Fire Nation  
Youre *such* a dork. Im usually free after 8 because my boss is a slave driver  
Sun, Mar 13, 9:09 pm

From: Jean  
Fucker. I got class and mom’s ad tomorrow, so not tomorrow. Tues?  
Sun, Mar 13, 9:12 pm

From: Prince Zuko Of The Fire Nation  
I should be free then. Whatre we gonna do?  
Sun, Mar 13, 9:14 pm

From: Jean  
SURPRISE MOTHERFUCKER. Youll like it. Probs  
Sun, Mar 13, 9:16 pm

From: Prince Zuko Of The Fire Nation  
All right. I trust you. Ill text you when Im done w work?  
Sun, Mar 13, 9:20 pm

From: Jean  
Boychik if you think we’re not talking between then and now you’ve got another think coming  
Sun, Mar 13, 9:22 pm

Marco buried his burning face in his pillow, phone loose in his hands. He could love this kid. His phone buzzed again.

From: Ymir  
SHE JUST SHOVED ANOTHER CHICK INTO THE RAILING AND BROKE HER TOOTH. I AM IN FUCKING DEEP ASS LOVE HERE  
Sun, Mar 13, 9:24 pm


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: Kissing happens in this chapter. Not a lot. But it's there. [tumblr](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com)}

Marco only had two house calls to make on Monday, so he and Annie took it slow and quiet around the corners. Annie’s silence was different than Bertl’s, more of a ‘don’t touch me’ vibe, but Marco was used to her by now. Besides, he has plenty to think about without a conversation.

Halfway through their second job fixing a leaking water boiler with poorly designed crawl space controls, Annie spoke, echoing out of the dirt and concrete. “You’ve been unpleasantly happy today. What’d you do, find a unicorn?”

Marco grinned as he arm wrestled with a rounded bolt. “Nah, our woods are way too small for a unicorn.”

“Then what happened?”

“I, uh…” He wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “I think I had a date last night.”

“You _think_.”

“Well, it didn’t start off as a date, but it probably definitely ended that way.” He shook out his arm and tried to tighten it at least one more circle.

“What’s their name?”

“Uh. Jean.”

There was a pause from the crawl space, long enough for him to get the bolt as tight as he could and move on to the next one, crouching down beneath it.

“So you’re fucking Kirschstein’s kid, huh?”

Marco shot up and banged his head on the pipe. “ _Ay, jueputa!_ Annie! We haven’t even _held hands_ yet! And how’d you figure that one out?”

“There’s only one dude who spells his name the French way in this town, Marco, it’s not rocket science.” Marco groaned and rubbed at his face, calluses scraping against scars. “I haven’t seen him since we all got out of high school, but I bet he’s still a gigantic asshole.”

“Yeah, he is a little. But I don’t really mind. Assholes are fun sometimes.”

Annie moaned, echoing from the crawl space. “You are _so_ gay, Scarface.”

Marco laughed, stepped back from the piping. “Okay, flip the switch now.” The creak of Annie turning on the water, and the answering rumble from the boiler.

“So, how’d you meet him?”

“Uhmm.” Definitely not when he crashed his mom’s house party. Definitely not. “Bertl and I got called in from an emergency visit yesterday at his place. Sarge called Bertl away from the site, and Jean gave me a ride home.”

“You are so boring, for someone with a rap.” The pipes started hissing steam. He jumped back.

“Turn it off!” He cringed away for the thirty seconds it took for the closed pipe to empty, then sighed and picked up his wrench again. “I’m sorry I don’t live up to your felonistic expectations.”

“Does he know yet?”

Marco grunted as he tried to tighten the bolt even more. “He didn’t ask. I don’t think he even knows my name yet.”

“What.”

“Yeah.” He gave up on being a proper repairman and went for the duct tape. “I think he really thinks I’m Prince Zuko from _Avatar_.” An ugly snort echoed out of the crawl space.

“ _Oh zhe moi_. I can’t _believe_ we hadn’t thought of that one yet.”

“One day you and Ymir will run out of burnt pop culture icons, I’m sure.” He wrapped up the joint of the pipe and tore off the tape. “All right, try it now.” The water gurgled, but the steam never came. Marco sighed. “You can come out now.”

Annie back-squirmed out of the crawl space, Marco catching her as she fell the six feet to the floor. She pulled her shirt straight from where it’d twisted around her torso and pinned him down with her icicle eyes. “You’ll have to tell him eventually.”

“I know.” Marco shoved a hand through his hair, shaking out dust as he went. “It’s probably not gonna go anywhere. I doubt a gubernatorial candidate will want her only son dating a dirty, ugly felon.” Annie scowled at him. He turned away to check on the boiler. “We’ll see what happens.”

Annie punched his shoulder blade. “If that dick breaks your heart because of what his _mom_ might think, me’n the boys’ll beat him up for you.”

Marco laughed, eyes to the ground. “Thanks, Annie. But I can handle it.”

* * *

Jean checked his hair in the mirror one last time – it looked stupid and would look even more stupid once it’d been under his helmet, but, screw it. He was just gonna look stupid.

He ran down the stairs, jumping the last four, and dashed around to the other staircase to the ground floor. His mom was working all night at the court. Jean usually hated it when she pulled shit like this, but tonight he just texted her that he was going out with a friend and that he’d check in before midnight (and gotten a “remember the curfew, Cinderella” in response). He’d bring her McDonald’s or something when he was done, the nerd.

He snatched his keys from the bowl by the door and locked up, not-quite-jogging to the garage and his bike. What she didn’t know wouldn’t kill her. He grabbed his old helmet from a corner and strapped it around his arm. It wasn’t as official or cool as his new one, but it did the job. He revved it up and headed downtown.

They met at a Greek place a block away from the main strip, not quite nice but definitely date-worthy. Zuko was sitting on a raised concrete flowerbed outside, dressed in a sweater and a pair of jeans without any holes in them, hands tucked under his arms. He looked up when he heard the bike, white smile clear even in the twilight. Jean swallowed down his churning stomach and parked in front of him, killing the engine and taking off his helmet.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Jean gulped again and got off his bike, hanging the helmets from each handle. Zuko hopped off the flowerbeds and shoved his hands into his back pockets as Jean kicked out the stand and stepped up on the curb. He looked up into Zuko’s face, too close – he’d forgotten Zuko was taller than him. They stared at each other for a full ten seconds, Zuko’s smile lopsided and Jean’s twitching to match. “You, uh, wanna go in?” Zuko ducked his head in a grin. He’d done – something, to his hair, and it didn’t hang in his face so much. Jean could appreciate this. “You, you look really good, by the way?”

Zuko turned his head to the right. “Thanks?” _Why do you hide your scars? Okay, well maybe I get that, but - what can I do to make you stop?_ Zuko rubbed two fingers behind his left ear, looking at the daffodils in the flowerbed. Jean’s lungs tightened. His hands twitched.

“C’mon, let’s go eat, I’m starving.”

Zuko laughed and dropped his hand to his side. Jean frowned and clenched his fist as he brushed by to lead him in.

Going inside and shuffling through the tabling process took some of the raw edge from his skin. When Zuko smiled at him from across the table, he managed to smile back.

“You ever been here before?”

Zuko shrugged, looking over the menu. “I used to come here with my mom whenever we came into town to visit her family, but I haven’t been since I moved here full time.”

“That’s a bummer, this place kicks ass. Your mom still comes to visit you, though, right?”

“Ah, no.” Zuko tugged at the hair on the back of his head. “She, uh. Died.”

“Oh shit.” Jean slapped a hand to his mouth, face hot. “Shit, I’m so sorry, dude, I had no idea, fuck, sorry-”

Zuko smiled, even more lopsided than usual. “It’s all right. It happened a while ago.” He rubbed at his right ear with his shoulder and stared at the menu. Jean dropped his hand.

“Well, my dad died when I was, like, four. So I guess we’re sort of even.”

“I know.” Zuko blinked, glanced up at Jean’s furrowed eyebrows. He shrugged and slid down in his seat. “I might have, uh, read your mom’s wikipedia page.”

Jean snorted. “That’s one way to learn about me, I guess.”

“Narcissist.” Zuko nudged his shin with his shoe. “What if I wanted to vote for her before I even met you?”

“I-” Jean paused. “Wait, really?” Zuko nodded. “That’s… really cool, actually.”

Zuko crossed his arms tight. “I just think I’d like to live in a world run by her, that’s all.”

Jean coughed on his own spit. “You wanna move in and see how much it sucks? We can probably make room for ya.”

Zuko grinned. “Jean, I think I could live in your house for a full year before anyone even noticed me.”

“Hey! It’s not _that_ big. The third story’s basically an attic with a bathroom. I’ve seen bigger!”

“What was it, a cruise ship?” The waiter came up with waters. Zuko sat up straight and thanked him with a smile. “Face it, you’re a rich kid.”

“Wha- not _that_ rich. I went to public school!” Zuko laughed and winked up at the waiter, who laughed at them both. _Why are you flirting with people who aren’t me?_

“Is the not-that-rich kid ready to order, then?” Jean scowled at the waiter, but he just smiled back. Zuko kicked him under the table.

Zuko didn’t stop flirting with the waiter, but he also didn’t stop flirting with Jean every chance he got. Maybe he was just one of those types who didn’t know how to interact normally and just flirted on standard mode. Or maybe he was attractive enough that any show of attention felt like flirting. Whatever the reason, Jean couldn’t say he minded spending dinner with a nice guy who played footsie and let him have the last of his pita chips while winking across the table. Jean even left the flirty waiter an okay tip before they left.

“So.” Zuko rolled down the sleeves that he’d pushed up while eating. “Where’re we going now?”

Jean shrugged, hands in his pockets. “You ever driven a stickshift?”

“Uh- no, but I know the idea? Why?”

Jean grinned. “This’ll be fun.” Jean went to his bike and mounted, holding out the nice helmet to Zuko ten feet away. “C’mon, get on.” Zuko took a few steps forward, then hesitated, hand halfway to the helmet. Jean rolled his eyes. “It’s not gonna bite you!”

Zuko laughed and took the helmet – good, Jean’s arm was cramping. “All right. I guess I’ll trust you.”

Jean shoved his old helmet on his head as Zuko followed suit and climbed on behind him. His arms suck around Jean’s waist and cinched tight, which was totally why Jean’s breath hitched. Totally. “Ready?”

“When you are.”

* * *

Marco’s surprise was an empty church parking lot, with a view over the valley and only one streetlight on. When Jean parked under it, Marco dismounted and tugged off the claustrophobic helmet.

“Well. It’s a surprise.”

“Shut _up_ , princeling.” Jean flipped up his collar and leant against the bike, ankles crossed and helmet hair ruffling in the wind. Marco swallowed the bubble of laughter rising in his throat. “I just – well, I thought, you know, you’d maybe wanna learn how to drive the baby. In case you change your mind or something. But that’s probably not as cool as I thought it would be, sorry.”

Marco beamed, taking a step closer, wind blowing up the loose cuffs of his sweater. “I love it. Let’s do it.”

Jean blinked up at him, mouth parted. Then he smiled, and Marco’s heart pumped harder. “Awesome.” He pushed off the bike to his feet, a hand away from Marco. He looked away. “Well, get on.”

Marco shuddered (from the cold) and did as requested, Jean right beside him to hold it steady and kick up the stand. “Right, so, you’ve not done a stick before, but you’ve ridden a bike, right?”

Marco grinned at him. “It’s been a while.”

“Well, you know, you never forget. Hands on the bars.” Marco leant forward a little to reach the handlebars, Jean’s gloved fingers slipping over his frozen bare ones to put them in place. Jean growled and tore off his gloves with his teeth, shoving them in his pocket and zipping it up, His hands were warm, now, and soft on Marco’s swollen knuckles. “So, you twist the right handle down for that gas, like this. The handle in front of that is the brake, and the pedal above the right footrest is one, too, although I don’t use that one much. You’ll figure out what you like. The left ones’re the clutch – you’re left-handed, yeah?”

“Oh- yes, I am. How did you…”

“You eat with your left.” Marco turned his face into the wind. “And, um, your left arm’s bigger than the right, so.” His hand ghosted down Marco’s left bicep, snatched away. He shrugged. “Just an observation.” Marco smiled at the yellow gas tank between his knees. Jean cleared his throat. “Right, anyway. You’ll probably get the clutch a little better than most. Maybe.” His fingers laced over Marco’s left hand, and Marco could feel his pulse where their wrists touched. He gripped harder for balance as he balanced on his right foot and gestured with his left. “The gear shift’s the pedal, and you gotta hold down the handle while you do it and let go of the gas…” Marco watched his foot, eyebrows furrowed, all of his being focused on the back of his left hand. Jean huffed and set his foot down again. “It’s hard to explain, you just gotta fuck it up until you get it.” Marco laughed, chin to his chest. “You ready to try it out?”

“Is that it?”

“Well – you just gotta fuck it up _a lot_.” Jean grinned at him, a breath away. “That’s how I did it.”

“If you say so.”

An hour, a hundred transmission grinds, a hundred winces, and a hundred colorful Spanish curses later, he about had it. The first full circle around the parking lot blew Marco’s carefully placed hair all on itself, but Jean whooped and jumped in the circle of the streetlight and Marco couldn’t care less what his hair looked like.

He jerked down the gears as he came to a stop in front of Jean, holding the bike steady with his feet. Jean ran up and hi-fived him, stinging and palms red, both of them smiling hard enough to hurt.

“Dude, that was awesome! It took me, like, a week to get into second!” Marco laughed, flexing his hand on the handlebars.

“I guess I had a good teacher.” He got off the bike, thighs sore, and held the handlebars with his right hand while he kicked down the stand. A touch on his right hand. He jumped. Jean snapped his own hand back.

“Sorry.” His voice was rough, like tree bark and pine cones. “I just… wanted to see what they felt like.”

“Oh.” Marco came around the bike to stand in front of him, holding out his hand, palm down. “Go ahead.”

Jean’s fingers traced the swirls and ridges of his skin, dull reds and sick with shine. Marco just stood there, breathing and watching as his thumbs pushed up his cuff to see the ones on his wrist, forearm. “How far up do they go?” Jean whispered.

“All the way up,” Marco whispered back, barely exhaling. “And down again, to my knee.”

“Shit, oh my God.” Jean brought his hand up and kissed the pad of his thumb, eyes closed. Marco’s mouth flopped open, face hot. Jean’s eyes snapped open, and he dropped his hand like a hot rock. “Shit, shit, shit-”

Marco bit his lip and caught Jean’s elbows before he could run away. “Hey.” Jean shut up, orange eyes wide. “It’s okay.” Marco let go. Jean whined, just barely registering, following his hands.

“Your face is neat.”

Marco licked his dry lips. Jean’s eyes flicked down to them. “You think so?”

He nodded, still staring at Marco’s mouth. He took a step forward, bumping toes. His eyes darted all over Marco’s face, scars to non and up. He frowned. “You have a buttload of freckles.”

Marco laughed, head down and shoulders shaking – he could feel Jean’s breath on his chin. “That used to be the first thing people noticed about me.” His hands wanted to do something, so he hooked his fingers in Jean’s beltloops. Jean was breathing hard – oh, so was Marco. “ _Ay, que demonios_.”

“Huh?”

Marco bent in and kissed him.

Jean’s lips were chapped and peeling, and the grunt that vibrated against Marco wasn’t pretty, but after two seconds of shock Jean threw himself into it, arms around Marco’s neck and head tilting. Marco hugged Jean’s waist and hoisted him to his toes, opening his mouth to Jean’s wild explorations. Jean’s hands were on the back of his head, snarling in his gelled hair and holding his face close, belly to belly, nose hard on Marco’s cheek as he stuck in his tongue as far as it would go. Marco splayed his hands on Jean’s back and brought him a little closer.

Jean’s hands slid down to the base of his skull. He jerked back from the kiss and turned away Marco’s searching mouth to push aside the hair behind his ear and see the licks of scars that had burnt away the underside of Marco’s hair.

“Holy fuck that’s so badass.” He traced two fingers down behind his ear. Marco shuddered. “The fuck happened to you, dude?”

“It’s…” He rubbed his lips together. Jean ducked in to trail his mouth over those scars, down his neck. Marco relaxed his hold, and Jean’s heels clicked the pavement. His mouth felt distant, like there was a layer of foil between Jean’s teeth and Marco’s skin, sandpaper scraping inside his ribcage. “It’s a long story.”

Jean flipped sides to his unscarred half, and Marco’s breath rattled in his throat. His tongue traced the fold of his jaw and neck up to his ear. Marco peeled his face away. “Jean, we’re at _church_.”

“What the fuck ever, I’m Jewish.” He pressed his hands hard down Marco’s chest to his sides, fingers catching in his sweater. “And you’re hot.”

“Really?”

Jean groaned and looked to the stars. “Did you really think some burn marks would make you any less hot than you already were?”

“Well. Yes, actually.”

Jean knocked his forehead into Marco’s shoulder. “Stop _it._ ”

Marco’s heartbeat was a heavy rain at the window. He wrapped his arms tighter around Jean – he was skinner than he’d seemed on the bike, tapered and bony and. “Sorry.”

“S’not your fault.” Jean nuzzled into wool. “I just gotta fix it.” Marco dug his fingers into the cloth siding of Jean’s jacket.

“I don’t think it’ll be that easy.” _Fragile_.

“Don’t care.” Jean gripped tighter. “Fuckin’ like you and shit.”

Marco sucked in a breath. “Yeah?”

“ _Hell_ yeah.” Marco grinned and buried his face in Jean’s hair, scratchy and warm.

“That’s good. That’s great.”

A police siren called from a far corner of the valley; the cold stillness crashed back into them. They drew apart, the wind blowing away any residual body heat in a minute. Marco swallowed. “Uh, thanks for teaching me. About the bike.”

“Yeah, of course.” Jean pulled out his phone to check the time. “Shit.”

“That late?”

“Yeah.” He slid his phone back into his pocket. “If I don’t get going soon, McD’s’ll be closed and I’ll have to _make_ Mom’s midnight dinner.”

Marco laughed – too loud – he stopped. “Well, I shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

Jean paused while picking up a helmet from the curb blocking off the streetlight. “You wanna come with? She probably wouldn’t mind meeting a fan.” Jean grinned, but Marco shook his head.

“It’s all right, I’ve got an early morning anyway.” Jean frowned at him, but didn’t argue as they put on their helmets and left the parking lot to be empty again.

* * *

Jean spent approximately the next fourteen hours walking on air.

His mom was too busy to notice much besides the large fry and Diet Coke he put on her desk, but her assistant gave him a strange look while he smiled at her and gave her a Dr. Pepper. Whatever, screw her.

He floated through his classes, and his notes probably sucked, dotted with freckles and licked by scars, but he’d live. Probably. Shit, maybe not.

He was in the food court, eating sushi with one hand and trying to make sense of his abstract algebra notes from two hours ago, when a backpack threw itself into the chair across from him.

“Sup, asshole.” Eren sat down next to his backpack with his mountain high salad. Jean wrinkled his nose at him.

“Sup, dickwad.”

“How goes the turncoat life?”

Jean rolled his eyes. “Just because I quit our shit band doesn’t mean I turned you over to the British, bitch.”

“Hey.” Eren pointed at him with his plastic-wrapped fork. “The band’s not shit.”

“Uh, yeah, it is.” Eren scowled and tore open his fork’s wrappings with his teeth, growling. “Dude, you’re not a dog.”

“That’s why I’ve got a fork, duh.” He stabbed his salad. “You never answered my question.”

“It’s pretty great, actually.” Jean separated a crunchy shrimp roll from the pack and rolled it in his puddle of soy sauce. “I didn’t fail my last Analysis test, which is good. Mom’s up eight percent in the polls, which is better.” He ducked down a little to catch the roll in his mouth before it could fall apart. “And I had a date last night, so fuck you.”

Eren snorted, lettuce spraying. “With who, Harley D?”

“No! …Well-”

“Ha! Knew she was the only thing getting between your legs.” Jean kicked him. “Ow!”

“It was an actual person with an actual name, fuck you very much, it just _involved_ the baby.”

“An actual person?” Eren raised an eyebrow. “What’s their _actual_ name, then?”

“Uh.” Shit. “I- I never asked.”

Eren burst out laughing, faceplanting into the table and beating it with a fist, jarring the people down the table from them. “Shut _up_!” When he didn’t, Jean crossed his arms and sat back, waiting. When their tablemates gave it up as a lost cause, Eren sat up, wiping his eyes.

“Dude, I cannot _believe_ you.” His eyebrows drew together. “No, really, I can’t. What the fuck?”

Jean gestured vaguely with his chopsticks, ears burning. “I guess it just… never came up?”

Eren’s lip curled. “You’re _that_ self-centered that you never _asked_ them who they were before asking them out?”

“Oh my God.” Jean buried his face in his hands. “I’m an idiot.”

“Uh, yeah you are.” Eren reached over and stole his ginger, mixing it into his salad. “It’s probably too late to ask without looking like a douchebag, douchebag.” Jean groaned, elbows slipping out a few inches. “Serves you right for being a little bitch traitor.”

“This has nothing to do with the stupid band!”

“Whatever.” Eren swirled his salad up with his fork and took another bite. “So wha’do you know abou’ them?”

 _Is it bad form to mention someone’s face scars to a stranger?_ “He’s got a buttload of freckles.” Eren made an ugly noise in his throat. “Fuck _off!_ ”

“I’m sorry, this is just too good.” Eren grinned, a piece of kale in his teeth. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell everyone.”

Jean slapped his scalp. “I don’t know why I ever talk to you.”

“Because of my good looks and charm, obviously.” He cleaned out the kale with his tongue. “He doesn’t go here, does he?”

Jean shook his head. “He’s – shit, he’s an AC repair guy.” He pressed hard on the sides of his nose, eyes clenched shut, wincing at Eren’s guttural cackling. “I am going to _kill you_.”

Eren held his mouth shut until he got under control, then dropped it to his serious face. “No, really, I’m proud of you, man. You’ve achieved every dude’s dream of living in a porno.”

Jean threw the last roll in his mouth and slammed his notebook shut, shoving it in his backpack and standing. “ _Goodbye_ , Eren.”

“Hey! Ask him next time if he delivers pizza, too!”

 

"Fuck you _and_ your guitar!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: Petra decided she wanted to be here, too. People need to stop doing that. Good news is, if everything goes to plan, I can wrap this up in two more chapters+a sexy epilogue! Yeah! [tumblr](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com/) [blog tag for this story](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com/tagged/jeanmarco-cinderella-story-au) [art I did from last chapter](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com/post/92112318461)}

Jean only had morning classes on his Tuesday/Thursday schedule. He spent his morning divided between Combo, Abstract Analysis, and failing to facebook stalk Zuko – how hard could it be to find someone like him online? But he either didn’t have a facebook or he had some strict visibility settings, because none of the nearby networks had any face that could be his, especially not anyone attached to a Spanish name. (Look, the guy had cursed in Spanish all night, there had to be _something_ there beyond a killer AP score!) His noon class ended, though, and he still hadn’t found shit. He’d even tried twitter and LinkedIn, but he didn’t have a lot of faith riding on those. Before he got in his car (his mom had been home when he’d left) to go back to his house, he gave up entirely and snapped over a text to Zuko about it.

He went home, grumpy and starving, and found out that today was the day the campaign circus was coming to town.

The production was only half-installed, but printers were already plugged in across the front half of the first floor, routers probably using up all the bandwidth on the street like they always did. His mom’s team had been coordinating her campaigns since she started running for elected seats, so he was sort of used to this dog and pony show, but gubernatorial races were so much _bigger_. And earlier. His mom was probably already starting to kill herself. He turned away from the staircase with a grimace and went to find her in the madness.

He dug her out in her office, door propped open, her and her assistant already in the trenches of the paperwork that had been beamed over from her office at the court straight here, apparently. They were both arguing on their phones, so he pushed aside some poll results and sticker rolls to park on the couch and wait. His mom glanced up at his entry, but whoever she was arguing with must have been one important prick because she didn’t wave or smile or anything. Her assistant, Petra, however, wrapped up her conversation quickly and turned to smile at Jean, eyebags dark against her Irish skin.

“Like the new operations?”

“Yeah, I _love_ having my house taken over by a bunch of crazy politician wannabes in button downs.” He pulled his knees to his chest and picked at a loose string over his knee. He nodded at her shirt. “No offense.” She laughed, bent in towards him.

“None taken.” Her eyes flicked back to his mom, head bowed as she talked about county fairs or police escorts or pigs or something, and scooted her chair closer to the couch. “Your mom’s probably gonna step down from the bench soon, you know.”

Step down? Jean had known she’d have to quit judging at some point, and she’d had a short list for her interim replacement for a year, but, already? It was only March… He frowned at her downturned face, only her drawn eyebrows visible, hair a mess. She probably hadn’t slept since Monday.

“When did she eat last?”

Petra rolled her eyes. “I forced a few granola bars down her throat after dawn, and there’s been coffee, of course, but, nothing since then.”

“Typical.” The assistant laughed, hand pressed over her mouth. Jean looked at her – red hair pulled back tight but falling out in clumps, blouse rumpled, hands dry and red. “How’s your kid, Pet?”

She blinked. “Todd? He’s fine.” She twisted back a few fallen strands of hair. “He’s… staying with his dad a lot.”

“Oh.” He was gonna regret this. “Well, since ops is now in my house, you could probably bring him here. I could, y’know, look after him some. We’ve got plenty of extra beds, too.”

Petra smiled, eyes crinkling. “That’s really sweet of you, Jean. I’ll think about it.”

“How old is he now, anyway?”

Her smile grew, and she leaned forward a little more. “He’s twenty five months next week, and he’s the sweetest thing in the state!”

“Two? No way, he wasn’t even _crawling_ yesterday. Kids, man.”

They talked about Todd until Jean’s mom finished arguing with whatever poor, unfortunate soul got on her bad side and hung up with that sweet ‘go fuck yourself’ tone that Jean wished he’d inherited. She sighed, rubbing her temples, eyes clenched shut. Petra and Jean exchanged a look before he stood and went behind her chair to squeeze the headache out through her shoulders while Petra clicked the door shut. She smiled up at him.

“Thank you, dear.” He pressed the heels of his hands between her shoulder blades, and her eyes slipped closed again.

“Mom, you should, like, take a nap or something. Seriously.”

“I don’t need to sleep, I need to win.” Jean raised his eyebrows at the top of her head. Petra turned her head to hide her frown.

“ _I_ think you should do both. But first you need to _eat_. You too, Pet.” He scowled at Petra over his mom’s head. Assistant and boss looked at each other and laughed.

“You know it’s bad when the college boy is mothering the mothers.” Petra smiled. “Go on, Marianne. The world won’t end while you go to lunch.”

“If you’re sure.” Jean backed away from her chair so she could stand, wincing and stretching. He left his backpack by the couch and stepped out of the office – oh, right. Circus.

“Let’s go _out_ for food.” Her hand rested on the small of his back. “I’ll drive.”

“Drive your _car_ , right?”

He rolled his eyes. “You want us to bring you back anything, Pet?”

She shook her head and pointed to the back of the house. “I’ll just make a sandwich or three, I’ll be fine. You go ahead.” He nodded and grabbed his mom’s wrist – he’d have to drag her through the madhouse if he ever hoped to get out of here before dark.

“Loretta! When did you get here? How’s the baby?”

Jean groaned and hauled her along.

* * *

Marco had known he couldn’t hide behind Zuko forever, and that the longer he waited to share his past, the worse the reveal would be. But. Jean’s acerbic taste in his mouth, how he didn’t press him for details but didn’t ignore the issue, either, how he liked his freckles _and_ his scars – he forgot to be scared. It didn’t matter _what_ he was when he could be liked for _who_ he was. It was a nice high, a new high. _Fragile_.

From: Jean  
So this is super embarrassing but uh. Is your name really zuko or is it something cooler?  
Thu, Mar 17, 1:12 pm

His stomach twisted. He snapped his cheap phone shut and stuck it back in his pocket. It’d been a good hour and a half since he’d gotten that text, and he still hadn’t figured out how to answer it. Knowing his name (with the level of curiosity Jean had to be harboring) would probably lead to finding all the leftover media from his case. It’s not every day a house burns down and kills two people, after all, especially in this neck of the woods. He’d prefer to tell him himself – or, maybe better, never let him learn at all, and Marco could fade out of his life all together. God, yes, he liked Jean, but if _he_ was the cause of any Kirschstein family struggle, any campaign hiccups…

He was still brooding on it when he and Reiner finished for the long morning and broke for lunch at Krista’s sandwich shop. Today, Reiner got his sandwich to go and took it next door to eat with Bertl over the counter, and Marco and Krista had the store to themselves.

Krista sat down across from him at his table and propped her chin on her hands, grinning. “So. How’s Jean?”

“Oh. He’s…” Marco shoved chips in his mouth. “I’druther hear ‘bout you’n Miri, ’m boring.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “You don’t really mean that, dumb butt, talking about Ymir with you is like talking about your sister.” She bit her lip. “She is great, though.”

“Did you get her to join your team yet?” he asked, pulling out the toothpick from his sandwich. She rolled her eyes.

“My coach is being a baby and saying that we can’t bring on new girls in the middle of the season – hey! You’re distracting me!” He smiled behind his sandwich. “Lame face. I haven’t forgotten you haven’t told me how your date went!” She nudged him with her foot. “Spill!”

Marco swallowed his bite of wheat and ham. “It was fine.” Krista pouted. “It was… really fine?” Krista pouted harder, eyes squints. “We, uh, went to Sam’s, and then he taught me how to ride his bike – _Krista! Not like that!_ ” Marco hid his face in his hands while Krista broke into tears of laughter. “ _Putita_.”

“I have no idea what you just called me but I’m assuming it’s not nice.” Krista stuck her tongue out at him. He sneered.

“It wasn’t.” He chewed on his sandwich some more. “But the date, it was… nice. It really was.” He set his sandwich down in the basket. “But I don’t think it’ll happen again.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Well, you know, his mom’s running for governor, and I just… he doesn’t know who I am, Krista. Not even a little.”

“Hey. _Hey!_ ” She stood and came to his side, plopping her hand on top of his head and tilting it up so she could look at him, pupils little black dots in her blue irises. “Don’t be like that. If he likes you like he should, he won’t care.” She frowned harder. Marco chuckled, hollow.

“Ymir’s really rubbing off on you, isn’t she?” He reached up and lifted her hand away from his dirty hair. “All right, if I run into him again, I’ll-”

The door chimed. They looked up to see Jean holding the door open for his mother, talking to each other and absorbed. Jean’s gaze caught their movement and their hands. His mouth clamped in a hard line.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear.” Krista patted Marco’s head before going back to her post at the counter. Jean’s eyes darted between them, eyebrows furrowed. His mom didn’t care a whit about any of it and smiled at Krista, making small talk around her order.

Marco slouched down in his chair and picked at his food. Great, just wonderful. Life was just fan _tas_ tic.

Jean and his mom finished ordering and sat halfway across the dining room from him, just close enough that he could hear their louder conversations. Jean sat facing him so he could glare. Krista sat back down in her seat, smiling like the world was a big peach. Marco winced. Her smile disappeared. “What? I thought you said you had a good time with him?”

Marco groaned. “He’s totally mad at me for holding your hand just now, K, I can tell.”

Krista blinked, laughed. “Seriously?” She looked over her shoulder at Jean – still glaring – and stuck her tongue out at him. He frowned harder. She turned back around. “I mean, I know I wasn’t out-out in high school, but _come on_.”

“Krista!” Marco rubbed hard at his eyes. “You’re not _helping_.”

“What, do you want me to deliver their food and be like, ‘oh, by the way, I’m gay’ just so he’ll stop? In front of his nice mother? Who, by the way, remembers you as ‘that nice boy who fixed our air conditioning last week’.” She dropped her hands from their air quotes and winked. “She asked me about you at the counter.”

“Really? She thought I was nice?” Krista rolled her eyes. “Well – what did Jean say?”

“Nothing, he was too busy moping.” She raised her eyebrows. “You know, you could just _tell_ him that I’m dating your cousin or something, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s even the truth.”

“But if I do _that_ then he’ll wanna know who my cousin is and who _I_ am and I don’t _want to!_ ” He plopped his face down on the table. Krista slapped his ear. “ _Ow!_ ”

“You’re being a big baby about all this.” The bell at the kitchen window rang, and Krista pushed out from the table. “Start acting like an adult before I have to do it for you.” She huffed over to the waiting baskets and delivered them with a smile. The judge thanked her; Jean _hmph_ ed. Krista bit her lips on a laugh as she turned away, going back to her actual job instead of Marco’s table, as jean’s mom crossed her arms.

“Honestly, Jean, did you drag me away from my work just so I can watch you be rude to your old classmate?” He muttered something Marco couldn’t catch. His mom sighed louder. “No wonder you hate your friends, you can’t make any _new_ ones.” Jean made a face at her. Marco hid his grin in his sandwich. “How are you on carrying out your sentence, then?”

Marco kept steady eye contact with the lettuce edges of his sandwich. Jean did the same with his. “Okay, I guess. I didn’t fail my last Analysis test, and my Combo professor likes me a lot more than she should, apparently. She’s given me a thing to do to not get a D, I just gotta log a few hours gophering around her lab.” He smiled, lopsided to the left. Marco rubbed at his unscarred ear.

“Good, good. And the bike?”

“Uh.” He gripped the back of his neck, face turning pink. Marco changed a glance up and just caught Jean looking away. “I’m working on it.” Marco’s mouth twitched.

“ _Jean_.” His mom leant forward. “Who is it?” Jean very much did _not_ look at Marco.

“Uh, oh, no one, I mean-” Jean deflated. “Yeah.” Marco was running out of sandwich to hide behind.

“Is it a girl or a boy this time?” Jean’s face glowed, arms hugged his stomach as his lips barely moved. Marco’s toes curled in his boots, chest weak and throbbing. “You didn’t meet them through the band, did you?” Jean shook his head. “Classes?” Another shake, another murmur. She laughed. “All right, whatever you say. But you know the drill around election time.” She counted off on her fingers. “No crazy, no unemployed unless they’re a student, no rude, and no one who’s been before me in a court of law.” She bent her little finger back a bit. “Actually, it’s probably best to avoid crime at all, or I’ll never get the cop vote.”

Marco ducked his head down and snarled his fingers in his hair. Jean’s voice rasped, not enough for words but just enough to send over shivers. “Well, if you need me to help you figure it out, you know I’m here.” Marco’s hands slid through his split ends and came out with hairs caught in them. He stood and took his empty basket to Krista’s counter. She tilted her head at him.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

He winced, the back of his neck on fire. “Please don’t say that now.”

“Wha-oh.” She swayed to the side to look around him. “Oops.”

“Yeah.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Actually, maybe if you kissed me or something he’d leave me alone and I wouldn’t have to ever tell him about the – the thing.”

“Marco, I love you, but no. Ymir would throttle you.” She dumped the contents of the basket in the trash and tossed it on the dirty pile. “Just text him back and own up like a big boy.”

“See, this is why I haven’t dated in – ever.”

“Sure it is.”

Marco narrowed his eyes. “I have work to do, smart mouth.” He left the store and Krista’s smirk, shaking his hair in front of his face as he walked past the Kirschstein’s table and slipped out the door.

* * *

Jean tried his best to hide his sour black mood from his mom as they finished lunch and drove back home to the house/headquarters, but as soon as she was released to the custody of her crew, he ran to the patio and tangled himself in the slats of the railing, gripping the one-by-ones hard enough to press the grains of the wood into his palms, breathing fast and facing the wind.

His butt was numb and his fingers bright red when the door opened behind him. “Jean?”

He closed his eyes. “Hey, Pet.”

“What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

“It’s too loud in there.” He pressed his temple to the wood. “It’s weird, being loud.”

Petra hummed. The door clicked shut, and footsteps crossed the wood to his side. “It was rather sudden, I suppose. The next few months are just going to get crazier, you know.”

“Yeah.” Petra paused, wood creaking under her feet.

“It is nice out here, after all that in there.” She sat down next to him, back to the yard. “You gonna be okay?”

“I think so.” He kicked a heel against the latticework under the patio. “Did Mom tell you how I’ve fucked up?”

“You aren’t in the _realm_ of fucking up. Not really.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Look at you, still alive and everything. You’re doing great.” Jean snorted. “You’ll get through this little stumble, and Marianne’ll get elected, and the world’ll be a better place all around.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “I had a date the other day.”

“See, told you!” He chuckled and rolled his head, temple to crown on the wood.

“Yeah, he’s super nice and hot and neat and all that and I really, really like him. But.” He paused, smile falling. Petra waited. “I think he’s hiding something.”

“Like?”

“I dunno.” Jean’s hands slid from their grip down loose over his thighs. “I only met him a few days ago, but I still don’t know his name, and he flirts with _everyone_ , and he was totally holding Christine or whatever her name was’s hand, and I can’t even find him on facebook because I _don’t know his name_.” He opened his eyes to find Petra smiling at him. He smiled back. “You’re way too easy to talk to, did you know that?”

“It’s my job.” She turned towards him, wrapping an arm around the slat next to his. “If all of this is bothering you so much, you should talk to him about it.”

“I tried.” _A little_. “But he’s not responding to my texts.” He rested his forehead on a slat and looked down at the azaleas. “I thought he was, y’know, into me, too, but I think I was just projecting or something, Christina or whatever was _way_ cuter than me-”

Petra laughed, helpless and shaking. Jean stared at her. “Sweetheart, you’re a catch. I’m sure he’s just shy, too.” Jean frowned and banged his head against the slat.

“Then why does it all make me feel so _stupid?_ ”

“Feelings are strange creatures. It’s hard to predict how they’ll act.” She paused, wind and cold creeping in. “Very hard.” She pulled her knees to her chest, chin on them, and stared up at the house. “But there’s no way you’ll know if you never ask.”

Jean watched the wind tug at her ginger bun, loosening more hair to wave in the breeze. “I’m sorry, Pet.”

She shook her head and pushed back the loose hairs. “Oh well. What’s done is done.” She smiled at him, the crow’s feet barely there showing starker. “You’ll never regret knowing too much, Jean. Not about this.”

He licked his chapped lips. “Okay.” He extracted himself from the patio slats and hauled himself to his feet with the top railing. “Do you… should I make tea?”

She chuckled, head bowing so all he saw was red, red, red. “Yes. Tea would be great.”

He held out a hand to help her up and held the patio door open for her, pulling out his phone as he went.

* * *

Marco put his phone on silent as soon as he left the sandwich shop and avoided thinking about it until after the store was closed, clean, and dark, and all he had to distract himself with was breakfast’s dirty dishes and sleep. Which were awful, useless distractions.

He changed into his pajamas (an old shirt and sweatpants) and crawled into bed, phone in hand, and curled up against the wall before flipping open his phone to the waiting six texts.

From: Jean  
Hey sorry for being a dick earlier and not saying hi or anything and not introing you to mom like you probably wanted me to  
Thu, Mar 17, 3:17 pm

From: Jean  
SHIT I SHOULD HAVE DONE THAT SHIT I AM SUPER SORRY  
Thu, Mar 17, 3:22 pm

From: Jean  
I guess I’m just bad at this. Fucking hell  
Thu, Mar 17, 3:41 pm

From: Jean  
You’re probably busy working and stuff but I really really wanna know your name so I can stop calling you zuko all the time  
Thu, Mar 17, 5:25 pm

From: Jean  
Altho I’d probably still call you that sometimes because its a pretty good one  
Thu, Mar 17, 5:34 pm

From: Jean  
If this is bc I came on too strong the other night just tell me or shit maybe I didn’t come on strong enough idk  
Thu, Mar 17, 7:47 pm

Marco chewed his lip, adjusted his curl to take pressure off his shoulder. His phone screen fell asleep four times while he stared at the empty text message box, and his legs started sweating under his twisted blankets, but he replied.

From: Prince Zuko Of The Fire Nation  
You were fine. Its not you its me  
Thu, Mar 17, 8:51 pm

From: Jean  
ARE YOU SERIOUSLY PULLING THAT BULLSHIT ON ME WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR DEAL???  
Thu, Mar 17, 8:59 pm

Marco tipped his head back and grinned at his bare wall, the tight ball that had been spinning in his stomach all day unfurling. His phone vibrated in his hand.

From: Jean  
NO FUCKING WAY WHAT FUCKING EVER IT IS YOU CAN JUST FUCKING TELL ME GDI ZUKO  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:00 pm

From: Prince Zuko Of The Fire Nation  
Would you believe me if I said I was teasing you?  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:03 pm

From: Prince Zuko Of The Fire Nation  
Marco.  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:05 pm

From: Jean  
Shit that’s your name? FUCKING FINALLY WHY WAS GETTING YOUR GODDAMNED NAME LIKE PULLING TEETH  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:06 pm

From: Prince Zuko Of The Fire Nation  
A lot of reasons. None of them are reasons your mom would like  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:09 pm

From: Jean  
Fuck that shit mom’s gonna love you to literal pieces why would she ever not like you  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:11 pm

From: Jean  
You’re not a yankees fan are you  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:12 pm

From: MARCO  
Haha no thats not it. But its not something I wanna text about  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:17 pm

From: Jean  
Well fuck marco what’d you do rob a bank?  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:19 pm

From: MARCO  
No.  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:25 pm

From: Jean  
Oh my god you killed somebody didn’t you  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:27 pm

From: MARCO  
Can we talk about this in person  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:33 pm

From: Jean  
FUCK MARCO I WAS JOKING WTF????  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:35 pm

From: Jean  
Are you free now?  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:36 pm

From: MARCO  
I guess so  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:42 pm

From: Jean  
Well shit then I’m coming over  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:43 pm

From: Jean  
Where do you even live??  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:47 pm

From: MARCO  
I actually live above sarges store downtown?  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:51 pm

From: Jean  
Oh my god what is your life. I’ll be there in like 20  
Thu, Mar 17, 9:54 pm

Marco pushed his face into his pillow and screamed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: I don't know how obvious it is that I'm making this up as I go. But I am. There's been another chapter added to my forecast. [tumblr](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com/) [blog tag for this story](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com/tagged/jeanmarco-cinderella-story-au) [brand new twitter!](http://www.twitter.com/carriecmoney)}

Marco was waiting outside the store under a streetlight when Jean pulled up to the curb and flipped up his visor. “Hey.”

Jean squinted. “C’mon, get on.” He held out the helmet that Marco had worn the last few times he’d been on the bike. Marco nodded and took it, putting it on before perching behind Jean, fingers barely hooked in the leather. Jean groaned and pulled his arms in tighter, yanking Marco’s chest flush to his back. Marco yelped, but didn’t have a chance to back off again before Jean revved into gear and took off.

He drove him back to the empty church parking lot, driving to the edge overlooking the valley instead of the puddle of the streetlight. They got off and hung their helmets from the handlebars; Jean led the way to a picnic table on a patch of dead grass. Marco sat properly at the table while Jean climbed up to sit on the table itself, boots on the bench next to Marco. He leant his elbows on his knees and waited. Marco stared at the slashed scars on the table and wet his dry lips.

“Sorry. I haven’t told anyone about this in a while. I don’t remember how to start.” He traced a pair of initials carved into the table. “I went to Sina, back in high school. Grew up there, when I wasn’t spending summers with Dad’s parents in Panama. He worked with Sarge, helping with the books and making house calls in our town and stuff. Mom was a stenographer – not in your mom’s area, in the adult courts mostly.” His mouth twitched. “She’s the reason I wanna do polisci. She’d come home and tell us about the cases she’d covered that day and what _she_ thought about them…” He shook his head. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Jean pressed his knee against Marco’s shoulder. Marco wrapped his arm around Jean’s calf and clasped Jean’s ankle, eyes still following his other hand. He leant the dip of his shoulder into Jean’s knee and went on.

“Anyway. They were pretty good parents, but I was an only child, and a senior, and in the middle of my ‘adults suck’ phase. Y’know, not answering their calls when I was out late, picking bad friends, partying with my bad friends, not applying for college, all that. I got on the radar of the local cops – Sina is even tinier than this town, it’s insane. I didn’t get arrested then, they just knew my face. Nothing major.

“So one night.” Marco swallowed. “I came home from a party, drunk and high. They were asleep, so I went to my room, smoked some more just ‘cause, lit a few candles to hide the smell, and fell asleep on the floor.” His loose hand balled into a fist on the table; the arm around Jean’s leg trembled. Jean lifted a hand, hesitated, stroked through Marco’s dirty hair. He sighed, shaky, and leant into it, eyes clenched shut.

“I woke up a few hours later because I couldn’t breathe.” Jean’s breath hitched. “I- I still don’t know what caught on fire. I bet it was the curtains. I hated those things. All I think - all I really _know_ is that I woke up and _everything-_ ” He turned his face into Jean’s skinny thigh. Jean kept stroking through his hair, which was definitely a mess by now. “My- my room was upstairs, on the second floor. The stairs collapsed before I could get down them.”

“Holy shit.” Jean switched hands in Marco’s hair so he could wrap fingers around Marco’s fist on the table.

“Yeah.” It was night cold, below freezing, but he was hot, hot, sweating and breathless. His bed was a bonfire, his lungs _burned,_ _everything was burning_ -

“Marco. Hey, Marco.” Jean’s glove was slick and chilled on his face, tilting it up. Marco opened his eyes. “It’s okay, it’s all right, I’m right here, stay with me.” Jean’s eyes were orange, orange and black and brown, white tips sticking up and batting in the wind. Marco took a deep breath that made him cough. “Shit, I’m sorry, you can stop if you want, I don’t care – fuck, _Marco_ -”

“No.” The seam of Jean’s jeans scraped against his cheek. “I probably need this.”

A pause. “If you say so, man.” Jean pushed Marco’s hair away from his face. “Wish I’d brought water or something, though.”

Marco laughed, jerky. “That’s okay, Jean, I’ll live.” Orange and black and brown and white. “I hope your house never burns down.”

“Shit, I’m never having an open flame indoors ever again.”

Marco laughed more and wiped his leaking eye on the denim. His shoulders ached. “I was still sort of off then. It’s how I fell down half the stairs, landed on my side, and got up to get out.” He pressed his burnt ear and cheek into Jean’s leg. “I didn’t even think about Mom and Dad.” His eye kept leaking. Jean’s leather thumb wiped it away. “By the time I got out, someone had called it in, and the fire department and the police were there, and all the neighbors in their bathrobes were standing in the yard across the street, watching…” He exhaled, inhaled. “A cop caught me before I could fall over. I have no idea what I looked like. Probably hell. I think they said I was still on fire, then.” He swallowed, tears fat and fast now. He wiped his face with his shirt collar. “The firemen were already in, trying to get them out. They didn’t, they-”

 _In for ten, out for ten_. “I passed out in the ambulance. Woke up a few days later covered in gauze and handcuffed to the bed.” He wiped his eyes again, his nose. “They said, they thought, thought that I set – that I did it all on purpose.”

“ _Shit_.”

“They knew my face, yeah, and the neighbors fed them some bull about how I’d become ‘such a problem child’ and _shit_ like that, so I was charged with arson, double manslaughter, and there was no one to help. Grandparents dead or in another _country_ , my only other relatives Sarge – he’s my mom’s brother – and Ymir, and _he_ wasn’t going to help me with this. I had a court appointed lawyer who probably cared, but they had, like, four other cases on their plate as pitiful as mine, all across the county.” He pulled his sleeve down over his hand and rubbed his face. “And my parents are _dead_ because of _me_.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Jean unwrapped Marco’s arm from his leg so he could come down to the bench; Marco latched onto him and pulled him in close, almost yanking Jean into his lap. “ _Oof!_ ”

“Sorry.” He rubbed at his face some more. “I’m ruining your jacket, sorry.”

“ _Stop that_.” Jean cleared his throat. “It’s just a jacket.” He adjusted to sit in the space between Marco’s torso and the table, legs sprawled across the bench, boots clunking on the wood. Marco slid back a little to give him more room. Jean’s eyes were orange and black and red now, no brown at all. “You’re gonna make _me_ cry.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” Marco knocked his forehead into Jean’s shoulder with each _sorry_ , hiccupping. “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry-”

“Shhh.” Jean held him still, hand to his head. Marco muttered more apologies as Jean stroked the back of his head, neck. “Shh.”

Marco hiccupped. Jean exhaled through his nose. “Not trying to one-up you, ‘cause I can’t, but. My dad died in a motorcycle accident when I was a toddler.”

“I know.” Marco stilled, lifted his head to look at the yellow Harley a few yards away. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He hung an arm around Marco’s shoulders. “Mom about flipped her shit when I brought it home.”

Marco smiled, weak and water. “Is that a theme?”

“When I was six I tried to adopt a snake from the backyard.” Marco laughed, shaking too much, hiccupped. “They didn’t actually _convict_ you of anything, did they?”

Marco shook his head. “They ended up dismissing the case on lack of evidence. Being drunk and high at something like that, though, it. Didn’t help.” He swallowed. “I’d been eighteen for a week when it happened. That, and the fact that the cops already had it out for me, was enough to keep me out of your mom’s court.

“I spent six weeks handcuffed to a hospital bed, another three weeks shuffled between jail and court. They acquitted me, in the end, but I’m on probation still. Got another year before I can leave the state.” He hiccupped. “No one’ll hire someone with _that_ on their record.” He breathed for a minute, taking in the points and planes of Jean’s body in his arms, none of them going anywhere. “My parents left me the house in their wills. But, yeah. No house.” He’d almost stopped crying, just the leftover hiccups. Jean’s stomach twitched in his arms, but Marco didn’t dare look at his face. “Sarge sold the property while I was in jail. ‘For your hospital bills’, he said. I almost believe him. I didn’t want it anyway.” _Hiccup_. “When I got out, he offered me a place to sleep and a job. I think he wanted to try and reform me or something. Maybe Ymir liked me a whole lot more than I thought.” _Hiccup_. “I guess it sort of worked, although I don’t think it had a lot to do with him.”

“Was jail awful?”

“The burning building was, like, a million times worse than jail.” He looked at his burnt hand over Jean’s shoulder. “I… I wasn’t in the best shape then. I still hurt, all over, everywhere, I was burning for months after the fire.” A coal fire. _Hiccup_. “Plus, it’s not like they throw you in the prison yard when you’re being held for trial.”

“Right.” Jean covered the burnt underside of his scalp with his hand, orange and red eyes a breath away. “I wish I’d known you.”

“No, you don’t. You really, really don’t.” Marco knocked their foreheads together. “I was messed up, I was so, so messed up. If you’d called me Zuko then I’d’ve probably beat your face in.” He couldn’t close his eyes now, too close. “I’m better now. But I’m still not okay.” He swallowed over the crack.

“That’s okay. I’m not, either. No one is.” Jean cupped his face, gloves lukewarm. Marco smiled, big and white, choked on his laugh. Jean kissed his nose; Marco hugged him tighter.

“This may seem weird,” Marco whispered, “but you’re the first person who’s ever sat in my lap this long.”

Jean jerked, grinning, shoulders shaking. “Not even in jail?”

“ _Especially_ not in jail. Those guys were gross.” Jean huffed on his laughter, squirming on Marco’s legs – oh yeah, they were totally asleep now. “Well, that’s my story. I’m a scarred up charity case who burned down his own house.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s pretty bad, I get it.”

“I won’t even be able to vote for your mom in November.” Jean’s shoulders shook more.

“I think she can deal, Marco.” Marco sighed, melting into Jean. “Marco. What’s your last name?”

“Bodt. B-O-D-T.”

“Fuck, _that’s_ why I couldn’t find you on facebook.” Marco pulled back from his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed. Jean wrinkled his nose. “I was looking for Spanish-y names.”

Marco laughed, face still wet and ribcage yawning, rattling. “I don’t even _have_ a facebook.” Jean laughed with him, sniffling and smiling.

* * *

Jean and Marco spent a good hour on the bench after the story, laughing and talking and touching. Marco was still rattled, fingers too hard and smile too wide, and Jean wasn’t letting him go until he stopped, stopped it _all_.

The cold got to them first, despite the body heat trapped between them. Marco was nodding off anyway, a long day with a hard end, so Jean drove him home, the town deserted at this time of night. Downtown was a graveyard, the rows of parking spots empty and the orange streetlights glowing off the dirty snow piles on the sidewalk, trees lining the street barren but for the old Christmas lights. Jean drove through the parking paintlines by the curb all the way down the main drag just because he could before he parked in front of the hardware store. He idled and stared up at the windows above the store for the first time – paint chipped, glass pockmarked and streaked. Marco dismounted and handed over his helmet. Jean took his own off and set it in his lap, frowning. He caught Marco’s wrist before he could turn away.

“I know you barely know me.” Jean’s shoulders hunched up, eyes on Marco’s boots. “I know that this whole… thing, it’s new and unknown and we might not last a month.” He dropped Marco’s wrist and rolled the extra helmet’s crown around the one in his lap. “But I wanna care about you. I wanna _take_ _care_ of you.” He looked up at Marco’s soft eyes. “Is that all right?”

“I-” Marco closed, opened his mouth. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, there’s no rush, I guess.” Jean grinned. “I got a year until you can run away from me.”

Marco laughed, head tilted back to the stars, then stepped forward and hugged him, cheek to cheek. “Thanks. For… yeah.”

“No worries.” Jean cleared his throat, patted Marco’s back. “I still think you’re neat.” Marco’s breath huffed down Jean’s collar before he pulled back and kissed Jean, soft and short. Jean blinked a few times to scare away the stars. “ _Really_ neat.”

Marco smiled his lopsided way. “You, too.” Marco patted his cheek and turned away, pulling out his keys as he went. He smiled over his shoulder as he went in the door.

“Call me!” Jean yelled before the door closed. Marco made a face through the glass before he disappeared. Jean’s smile quirked up, and he had to take a minute to breathe before he put on the good helmet and clipped the old one he’d been wearing around his arm for the ride home.

His house was blessedly empty when he came home – they’d kicked everyone out for the night around dinner, although all of the equipment was still in place for tomorrow – and the rest of the campaign, probably.

His mom wasn’t in her bed. Instead, she was sprawled out on her office couch, papers scattered on the ground, mouth open and head crooked at an awkward angle that was sure to give her a pain in the morning. Jean frowned and knelt by her head, laying a hand on her back. She hadn’t even pulled the blanket off the back of the couch. “Mom, c’mon, you’ve got a bed for a reason.”

“Huh?” She blinked her eyes open, squinting. “Baby?” She sat up and stretched, yawned. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight, and you’re on the couch. C’mon, up.”

“Midnight?” She looked him over - jeans and his jacket. “Did you go out?”

“Yeah, just for a bit.” He stepped back so she could get to her feet - they were hurting her again. She was working too hard. “I had to talk to someone.”

“In the middle of the night?” She rubbed her eyes and yawned again. “Lord, I’m tired.”

“Of course you are, you fell asleep on the couch in your clothes _with the lights on_.” Jean crossed his arms. She smiled blearily at him.

“I’m sorry, baby.” He frowned at her and starting turning off lamps. He paused, hand on a pull cord, and looked around the office, trying to imagine what it would be like on fire, furniture black and shriveled, ceiling caving, his mom-

He shivered and turned off the light.

* * *

Marco slept hard that night and dreamed of flying armies and oceans on fire, face stiff and body drained. Sarge was banging on the store’s ceiling (his floor), screaming over late sleepers and early worms and whatever ( _they (the army) were in a spaceship, long and multiconnected, too late, too late_ ).

Marco groaned and rolled over in bed, pulling the covers over his head. “Criminal!” Boots pounded in the distance. ( _soldiers marched up the outside and the inside of the ship in perfect unison – was he with them or their mission? they were running after someone, something-_ )

The covers were ripped away ( _the side of the spaceship ripped away, letting in the cold death of space)_ and he curled in on himself, hiding from the cold ( _from the space),_ from the booming in his ears. He moaned. The booming stopped. ( _the spaceship stopped crumpling, frozen_ )

“You’re sweating - you sick, boy?” The voice asked ( _another soldier in the crowd_ ). Marco turned his face into the mattress to hide from the light ( _no light no light_ ). A big hand touched the exposed back of his neck. He shivered. ( _an alien had him, they had them all, blue-lipped and popping_ ) The hand withdrew. “Can’t even tell. Can’t have you coughing on paying customers, though.” The covers were tossed back over him ( _plants grew, a forest springing from the metal and silicon, the soldiers dissolved, the aliens_ ) and his grasping fingers pulled them tight. “Don’t make me call the doctor, criminal.” Boots receded ( _he sat in the top of a tree and cried sap into the bark, bright birds swimming by in the sky, orange and brown and black and white_ ), went away.

( _he sat in that tree_ _for hours, pouring amber into the veins of the tree, sky setting into its blood, its fire_ )

He woke up with a start ten minutes later, gasping, eyes wide to the wall.

* * *

Jean had believed Marco last night when he cried over killing his parents, but there was never regret over knowing too much, right? So he Googled that shit.

**SINA TEEN CHARGED WITH ARSON, DOUBLE MANSLAUGHTER IN HOUSE FIRE**

by HARRIET BROWN, Staff Reporter  
JUNE 23, 2010, 2:34 PM

Police have identified and charge a suspect in the recent tragedy that hit our community when the Bodt house burned to the ground.

The two-story house caught ablaze at approximately 3 AM on the night of June 21, killing the owners, Stacy and Lorenzo Bodt, and hospitalized their 18 year old son.

The son, Marco, is now being charged with the arson and deaths before even waking up in the hospital.

The Sina Police Department has issued a statement that the son was known to be disorderly and rebellious, but had no record before the fire.

The son was reported ‘under the influence’ at the scene, although what influence he was under has been unclear.

He has yet to wake up from his induced coma after suffering third-degree burns from the fire.

His representation has yet to issue a countering statement to SPD.

More to follow.

_Harriett Brown is a staff reporter for the Trost County Star._

There were a dozen articles following the trial in the archives of the local paper’s website – something like this didn’t happen often in their area – and they all confirmed Marco’s story. And more.

By the time Jean had to pack up his computer to go to class, he felt a little sick. And it was raining. Great. He ducked his head down and pulled his ski cap tight over his head for the walk across campus, but barely went ten steps before the rain went away. He looked up to find Connie walking beside him, fluffy rainbow hat covering his head and holding up his umbrella.

“You’re such a loser.” Jean snorted and hunched over to keep under Connie’s umbrella, slowing down for Connie’s short legs. “Eren told me you got a new boy, so does this mean you’re backing off of Sash now?”

Jean snorted again. “Dude, I was never _into_ Sash, she just flirted with me to get to you.” Connie blinked. Jean grinned. “You seriously never figured that out?”

“I…” Connie huffed, breath misting, and shoved his free hand into his pocket. “Shut it, you don’t even know your boy’s _name_.”

“Marco.” Connie wrinkled his nose. “I learned last night, so tell Eren to stop spreading gossip like the dickbag biddy he is.”

Connie grinned, teeth crooked and white. “Too late, bro, he’s told half the campus by now.” Jean groaned and pulled his hat tighter on his head. “Marco, huh? He hot?”

“Uh – yeah, I think so?”

“Cool. You should bring him to the thing tomorrow night at the Firehouse.”

“Dude, what part of ‘quit the band’ don’t you get?”

Connie jabbed him with his elbow. “You can still _watch_ us, jackass. See how awesome we are without you.” Connie grinned, and Jean smiled back.

“I bet we still suck.” Connie gasped. “But…” His mom had said ‘no band friends’, but if it was with Marco… “I’ll ask him about it.” If Marco wasn’t working. Damn, _he_ still needed to get that job he’d been ordered to find. He’d clean forgot about _that_ one.

Connie cheered, fist pumping, and hit Jean in the head with the umbrella. “ _Ow!_ ” Connie grimaced and stopped to extract a spoke of the umbrella from the threads of Jean’s hat, apologizing all the way. Jean furrowed his eyebrows and pulled his head from reach, ducking out from under the umbrella – they were at his building, anyway. But he stayed still, frowning at the ground while Connie propped his umbrella on his shoulder and cocked his head, eyebrows furrowed.

“Hey. Do…” Jean tugged at the hair sticking out of the front of his hat. “Do your parents still need help in the store?”

Connie snorted from the back of his throat, shoulders jerking up with his grin. “What, does the rich kid finally need to get a job?”

“M’not a rich kid.” Jean frowned at his bangs. Connie rolled his eyes.

“Sure you’re not, Mr. I Live On The Third Floor Of My _Mansion_.” Jean dropped his hand and scowled harder. Connie smiled. “I’ll ask them about it.”

“Thanks, Con.”

“You gotta bring this Marco dude to the concert, though!”

“Fine, fine, see ya later, jerk.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: I didn't realize how monster this chapter was until I remembered where it started. Oops. I have lost all control on this AU. [tumblr](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com) [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/carriecmoney) [blog tag for this story](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com/tagged/jeanmarco-cinderella-story-au) [ACC's set list/youtube playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLQ71NpayI0fkJJHZkz3B1maPHcyWmDAUN)}

Jean was haunted through the rest of his Friday classes by the reports of Marco’s all-too-true backstory, and went home actually grateful for the madhouse chaos. At least he could try to drown out his head. The call room would probably love his help – they never turned down relatives of the candidate, no matter how young or rude. But first, food.

He slipped through the house with only a few greeting side tracks on his way to the kitchen. Several of the team members were there, talking over sandwiches ordered in. They smiled at him when he came in and made room for him at the sandwich tray. Petra was part of the sandwich circle, her smile soft and tired. He was probably gonna get used to that.

Jean listened to them talk through three sandwiches, about the campaign, about the rain, other nonsense, from a stool a few feet away. Linner break ended, though, and they broke to go back to work. Jean caught Petra’s sleeve as she walked by.

“Can I talk to you?” Petra raised her eyebrows and nodded. Jean let her go and led her to the sunroom attached to the kitchen (he might be cut off from the outdoors by the rain, but he could get the next best thing). He sat on the cushioned bench that ran around the greenhouse-ish room, knees pulled up and back to the chilled glass, water dripping down it. Petra sat beside him.

“Remember that guy I told you about? And how you said it’d be better to know too much?” She nodded. He stared over his shoulder at the wet yard. “Yeah, about that.”

“Oh dear. What happened?”

“I asked for his name last night and got a fucking sob story with it.” He ran his hand through his hair, temple on the cold glass. “Marco. His name is Marco, and he burned down his house in high school.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Accidentally! It was an accident, I looked it up! See...” Marco’s story spilled out in fragments, not as teary as last night but just as painful. Petra held her hand to her mouth the whole time, eyes wide and breath held. When he finished, she was speechless for a good while, staring straight at the floor without seeing the wood.

“That’s _terrible_.”

“I know, right?” He stared at his faint reflection. “So what should I do about it?”

Petra laughed breathlessly. “Oh, honey, you’re so sweet.” She smiled at him, shoulders down and eyes narrowed. “You can’t _do_ anything, not to fix him, but if I had to guess… A boy like that, who’s been through that, he doesn’t want your sympathy. He just wants to be regular.” Jean nodded, eyes unfocused. “Does it affect how you feel about him?”

Jean closed his eyes and shook his head. “Uh… The reason I like him is because. I. I look at his face and I wanna know _everything_ , like who his favorite singer is and what he likes for breakfast and shit. Now I know a big thing, but I still don’t know his fucking favorite color. I wanna _know_ this dude.”

“That’s good. I hope he’s worth knowing.” Paused, listening to the rain. “What about your mom?” Jean shook his head.

“She knows there’s a guy. That’s about it.” Jean grimaced. “He’s a HVAC repair guy, that’s just gonna go over swell.”

“You have to tell her.”

“And I will, God.” He unfolded his stiff legs and stretched them out, sliding down on the bench. “But first I wanna make sure it’s something worth telling.”

* * *

Marco hadn’t meant to take Friday off. Apparently, though, his overworked body had other plans, throwing him in and out of consciousness all day, with bright, too-lit dreams that chased him and kept away real rest, shaking and sweating under his thin blankets. He had that perfect level of nausea to keep him immobile without following through on its vomit-promise, fluctuating into headaches and dizzy spells. Someone with small, soft hands sat him up at some point and forced soup down his throat, murmuring in a language he couldn’t catch and mopping at his face, smoothing down his back. The hands also forced down orange juice and water before leaving him to an afternoon of calmer, dreamless sleep.

Whatever the hell was wrong with his body broke just after dark, leaving him disoriented and weak. He rolled over in his bed and rubbed his eyes open – someone was slumped over his kitchen table, blonde hair sticking up over her face and snoring.

“Annie?”

She sat up with a snort, the folds of her sleeve indented in her cheek. “Huh?” She blinked a few times, looking around before she saw Marco in his bed. Her forehead relaxed. “Hey, Two-Face.” She stood and came to his side, clasping her hands to his face. “You’re not crazy hot anymore. That’s good, I think.”

He swallowed on his dry throat. “What time is it?” He sat up, arms shaking. Annie’s hand spotted his back, helping him prop up against the wall before she handed him a cup of water – lukewarm and waiting. She squinted across the room at his microwave.

“Eight thirty-ish.” She rubbed her eyes. “You need anything?” He shook his head, staring into his water. She shrugged and pulled herself up to sit next to him. “When Sarge said you were sick this morning, we all thought he’d killed you and was trying to cover his tracks. You’re _never_ sick. At least, not that Sarge knows.” Annie’s voice was deep for a girl, rough and quiet. Marco closed his eyes. “I had to check on you.”

The soup. “Thanks, Ann.” He sipped at his water.

“This isn’t Jean’s fault, is it?” Marco sighed. “Because if he’s such an asshole that you caught his stupid then my fist is going to have some words with his face.” Marco smiled around the rim of his cup.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Ann.” A lot of his dreams had been orange and brown and black… “I think it was a lot of things that caught up to me. Stress does funny things, y’know.”

“You should take a few days off.” He cracked an eye; she was staring straight ahead, chin on her knees. “We worry about you, me and Reiner and Bertl and I. Ymir, too, even if she won’t say.” She tilted her head, cheek on her kneecap. “You’re too good for this.”

Marco’s chest couldn’t handle this, throbbing and flaming. “Annie…” She frowned, fell to the side to knock her forehead against his shoulder. He froze, cup half empty. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She jerked away and hopped off the bed. “Krista gave me an assload of soup when I said you weren’t doing hot. I’ll heat some up.” She yanked open the fridge and got out a quart container. She glared over her shoulder when he shifted on the bed. “Stay.” He smiled, shaking the phone he’d traded for his empty water cup on the bedside table. She frowned and hunted for bowls.

From: Jean **  
**Hey so my friends are having a concert tomorrow night and they want us/you to come ****  
Fri, Mar 18, 4:45 pm

From: Jean **  
**They suck but itll be something to do right? ****  
Fri, Mar 18, 4:52 pm

From: Jean **  
**Its at the firehouse over on spring ave ****  
Fri, Mar 18, 5:01 pm

From: Jean **  
**FIREHOUSE SHIT IM SORRY HOLY SHIT I DIDNT MEAN SHIT ITS LIKE AN OLD FIRE STATION SHIT ****  
Fri, Mar 18, 5:21 pm

From: Jean **  
**Well anyway it starts at 8 so let me know if you’re game ****  
Fri, Mar 18, 6:02 pm

Marco laughed, eyes shut and head ducked. The microwave trilled for the second time, and Annie brought over two bowls, spoons sticking out, and handed over one before sitting on the edge of the bed with hers. “What’s funny?”

“Jean.” He held out his phone for her to see. “It’s almost precious.”

She scrolled through the texts. “So he knows now, huh.”

“Yeah.” He took his phone back. “I told him last night.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Stress, huh.” He looked down at the floating carrots and celery in his soup.

“He took it well, but it was… hard. To talk about. Like, really talk about it, not just make jokes about my face.”

She stirred her soup. “M’sorry.” He smiled.

“I _like_ the jokes about my face, Ann. I’m not a tenderheart about it.” He spooned soup into his mouth. “’Sides, it’s more fun when people acknowledge it instead of try to ignore it.”

The corners of her mouth deepened. “You gonna go, then?”

“Why not?”

From: MARCO **  
**Sounds like fun! Ill have to get someone to close for me but I can make it work ****  
Fri, Mar 18, 8:48 pm

“You’ll cover me, right?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “I take back that ‘too good’ comment.” Marco laughed. “Y’know I was serious about us worrying about you, right?”

From: Jean **  
**HELL YEAH I’ll pick you up at 8 ;) ****  
Fri, Mar 18, 8:49 pm

“I’ll be fine, Ann.” She frowned at her soup and didn’t argue. “Thanks for sticking around for me.”

“A’course.” She licked the back of her spoon. “Took all I could to keep Bertl and Reiner out. Didn’t want to overwhelm you.” Marco smiled. “You’ll wanna watch out tomorrow. Sarge isn’t happy about having to take your place and work like his own slave.” Her mouth quirked up.

“I don’t work like his _slave._ ” She leveled her ice eyes at him. “Really!” She shook her head.

“What are we gonna do with you, boy.”

* * *

Jean had no idea what Marco would think of his old band (or the other two performing that night), but Marco kissed him when they traded helmets on the pickup, so he couldn’t really give a shit.

They got there late, the concrete and brick building already throbbing and cars packed into the gravel lot behind it. Jean parked behind Eren’s piece of shit truck and tossed their helmets in the bed, kicking the tires. Marco laughed as he dismounted. Jean grinned and caught his hand, face hot. “C’mon, let’s go make fun of white boys who can’t sing.”

“Says the white boy who can’t sing.” Marco squeezed his hand back ( _his heart thumped_ ) and let Jean drag him to the front door.

There was a ten dollar cover fee, but Jean knew the owner/bouncer, a blonde girl with a sidecut and a gum addiction. She popped it when he came in the door, slouching back in her folding chair in the tiny front room. “You’re late. They’re already warming up for the first set.”

“I’m not playin’ tonight, didn’t they tell you I quit?” She shrugged. “I’m just here to laugh.”

She popped her gum, eyes trailing down his arm to their hands, up to Marco’s face. She raised her eyebrows. “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your _friend?_ ”

“Oh, uh.” He tugged on Marco’s arm. “Marco. This is Hitch. She’s obnoxious.”

“Hey, Mr. Pot.” Marco chuckled. Hitch smirked. “I like this kid. You better keep him ‘round to laugh at my jokes more.”

“Whatever, can we go in?”

“I’ve made my quota.” She patted the moneybag in her lap. “G’on before I change my mind.” She kicked the door open and they got hit in the face with a wall of sound. Jean pulled Marco along before Hitch could say anything worse.

The actual concert venue was the old firetruck garage, dirty and unlit, bare lightbulbs hidden in the mess of piping on the ceiling fifteen feet over their heads. It also had shitty acoustics, so the band on stage in the far corner was completely incomprehensible, especially through the filter of the crowded room. Marco’s heat hovered at Jean’s shoulder, mixing with the general body heat of the Firehouse. Jean let go of his hand to strip off his gloves with his teeth and shove them in his jacket’s inside pocket, unzipping it on the way. “We only have to stay as long as you want,” he yelled over the din, back to Marco, eyes searching for familiar faces. “Just hit me and we’re out.”

“All right.” Jean yelped – that was a _lot_ closer than he’d thought. Marco laughed in his ear. “I’ll let you know.” Jean gulped and stared straight ahead, tense all over. Marco laid a hand at the small of his back, under the short hem of his jacket. Jean shivered. “So what d’you do at these sorts of things, anyway?”

“Stand along the wall and glare at everybody.” Marco snorted, shoulder bumping Jean’s back. Jean turned his head a little to the side – God, Marco was _right there_. “We… we could start by getting away from the door.”

“Good plan.” Marco stepped away, but Jean snatched his forearm and held him close as they circled the hipster center. The band on stage stopped banging and yelled something into the mic over the cheers and crowd white noise. Stage reset. They unplugged their instruments and jumped off the triangle platform, the chatter of the crowd swelling as Jean’s old band swarmed up after them. Jean and Marco stopped a few yards away from the stage, wedged between the wall and a circle of teenagers in mismatched plaid. Marco’s hair brushed against Jean’s ear.

“So, who’s who?”

Jean relaxed, shoulder just touching Marco’s chest. “First off, everyone but Sasha’s got a weird ass name.” Marco laughed, vibrating through Jean. “She’s the white girl on bass. Then we got Connie, the black guy on drums, but I bet you fifteen bucks he’ll put on his Kanye hat before we’re done.” Marco’s hand barely touched on his back. “Armin – A-R-M-I-N – he’s the violin guy. He’s probably the best of us, either him or Mikasa on the keyboard. They used to do orchestra shit together before they grew up. And then there’s Eren on the guitar, and he does most of the singing. He’s got way too many E’s in his name to be real.”

“E’s?” Marco’s fingers clutched in his shirt. Jean’s breath hitched.

“Yeah, but it’s funny when you spell it the normal way.” Marco laughed. Eren finished fighting with the amp and his guitar and started fighting with the microphone.

“So, where’d you fit into this?”

Jean shrugged. “Support. They won’t miss me much.”

Eren and company won the war with the equipment, screeching feedback fading into background. “Yo, we’re Ascending Cable Collision, let’s get this shit on!”

“Ass- what?” Marco yelled over the cheers. Jean shrugged again.

“We can never decide on a name because we can never decide on a genre, so-” He paused as Armin’s electric violin started up. “They’re not.”

“What?”

“ _You’re not!_ ” he yelled at the stage. No one heard him.

_“I threw a wish in a well – don’t ask me I’ll never tell –“_

Jean buried his face in his hands. Marco tilted his head, temple resting on Jean’s. _Fuck_. “Is that…”

“Yes, it’s _exactly_ what you think it is.” Marco didn’t hear him, of course, but he didn’t need to when Eren took in a deep breath and _screamed_.

“ _Ayala ñex!_ ” Marco started laughing along with half the crowd (the half not cringing or failing to mosh) as Eren tore “Call Me Maybe” to screamo shreds, his backup band grinning as they played. “Dude, I love your band!” Marco yelled in Jean’s ear, hand sliding around to his side. Jean just shook his head and moaned into his palms, face burning them.

The song was embarrassing, but it loosened up the crowd – no one couldn’t laugh at Eren eating the microphone while shrieking Carly Rae Jepsen. They flowed straight from that song into an old Fall Out Boy song. “Eren picked this set,” Jean said. Marco ducked his head in to hear him better, chin on Jean’s shoulder. “Those two are Eren’s favorites, he picked the set,” he repeated louder. Marco hummed and hooked his free hand’s thumb into Jean’s beltloop, chest flush to his back now. The circle of bad plaid was on the move, jumping up and down to Eren’s Patrick Stump impression as he sang about blaming and hating. He was already sweating, hair dripping onto his old Doors shirt and plastered to his head. Armin (who had a break on this song but for backup vocals) was craning to look around the crowd. He and Jean made eye contact – Armin beamed, flashed him a thumbs up. Jean grinned back and put his hand over Marco’s at his hip, locking their fingers together.

The song ended with a final chord, and Armin jumped back to ready position, violin tucked under his chin. Eren chugged half a water bottle and traded out his electric for his beatup acoustic ( _Armin and Mikasa had bought it as a birthday present eight years ago_ ). Eren hooked over the stage stool and perched enough to have a leg rest for the guitar and took a breath before beginning, Mikasa coming in a measure after. Jean hummed and leant back into Marco’s chest, sighing.”

“ _I could tell you the wildest of tales – my friend the giant and travelling sales-”_

Jean swayed in place, eyes closing. Eren was breathless still from Fall Out Boy, the acoustics still sucked, but covering Yellowcard catered to all their strengths, especially when they found a song that Mikasa couldn’t help singing with. Jean mouthed along with Eren, smiling when Marco started to sway with him, nuzzling into the junction of Jean’s neck, chin pushing his jacket collar down. Jean could feel every square inch of his skin, hand to hand to Marco’s nose in the dip of his jaw and the rise and fall of his chest against his back. The press of a mouth to Jean’s tendon. Armin’s violin wove through Eren’s guitar, Mikasa’s piano, Sasha’s bass, Connie’s drums, their voices, and for five whole minutes, they were perfect.

They trailed off, one by one, Armin holding on until the very end. Jean sighed and rested his cheek on Marco’s temple. There was a break for applause, thunderous in the concrete, and – shit, Marco was _all around him_ , oh shit, was this kosher? Jean stiffened, hand clenching over Marco’s. Marco pulled his face away and backed off some, still touching on his hands but not quite so wrapped, taking the heat with him.

“This one’s for the asshole who quit the band!”

Mikasa hit her next chord. Jean’s eyes popped open as the room exploded. Armin had a tambourine now ( _a cheap one they’d bought at a party store last New Year’s_ ); Eren had traded guitars back and was grinning straight at Jean over the microphone. Jean barked a laugh and twisted away from Marco’s hold (something skittered down his skin, but he shook it away) to kick aside the jerks in plaid and jump on stage.

“ _I see you drivin’ round town with the girl I love – and I’m like – fuck you!_ ’

The crowd hooted. Armin handed over the tambourine, laughing, and stepped back into the safe zone behind Mikasa’s keyboard to give them room.

“ _I guess the change in my pocket wasn’t enough – I’m like – fuck you! And ah- fuck her too!_ ”

The platform was covered in cords and tiny and splintery, but Jean’s feet knew this stage, knew how Eren would turn towards him when he started yelling along with the song, knew to catch the mic before Eren’s guitar neck swung around and knocked it over. Maybe a year ago they’d be fighting through this song, but tonight everyone was grinning, the crowd singing for them. In the nucleus of the noise, though, it didn’t drown so much, just the _thump_ of Sasha’s bass in his breastbone and Connie’s drums in his feet. Eren’s ocean eyes were blown wide and shining, hair dripping and shirt soaked dark grey, yelling into Jean’s face more than the mic – was that spit on his face or sweat? Eh, whatever, he’d had worse.

They ducked and wove around each other, the stage, Jean dancing like a white boy but he didn’t care. Mikasa and Sasha supplied their backup chorus, and Armin laughed and kept them from knocking over anything important.

Eren caught Jean around the neck after his last chord and made him bow to the room, grinning and sweating all over Jean. Eren twisted his leg around the mic stand and swung it in front of them. “Yo, we’re Ascending Cable Collision, and we’ll be back! You guys rock!” The crowd cheered and yelled, the people by the stage reaching up to high-five them or just slap their shins. The other three members lined up next to them, soaking in the attention for the full thirty seconds the band following gave them before pulling them off the stage. They snatched their instruments up before jumping off into the waiting crowd. Jean laughed as the plaid guys slapped him on the back and yelled nice things in his face, features blurry. He pushed through them at last to Marco, who leant against the wall where he’d left him, and stopped an inch from his face, panting and grinning. Marco’s lips parted, and Jean pushed up to kiss him, hard and fast, hands on his face. Marco blinked on the break, left corner of his mouth quirking up. Jean laughed and let go of his face.

“C’mon.” Jean caught his hand and tugged him through the crowd back to Hitch’s front room, where the bands went to cool down between sets while Hitch counted her money. Everyone was already there, sitting in a tailor’s circle next to the other band rotated off the stage, knee to knee and laughing over water and their instruments. Armin looked up when the door opened and beamed.

“Jean!” He shoved at Eren’s side with the butt of his violin to spread the circle wide enough to let them in. Jean plopped down while Marco folded his legs up underneath him, sliding in beneath Mikasa’s keyboard set across her lap. Armin leant across Jean’s crossed legs to smile at Marco. “Hey! I’ve heard so much about you!”

“You have?” Jean and Marco exchanged a look at their simultaneous question. Jean frowned and pushed Armin off his lap. “Dude, I haven’t seen you since you broke a lamp at the Purim party, how’d _you_ know?”

Armin’s smile fell away, his face flushing. “I did _what?_ ”

Eren leant his chin on Armin’s head. “Was it ugly?”

“Like homemade sin. Thanks, bro.” Armin bit his lip, but he’d get over it, especially with how low Eren’s hand was on his side. “Anyway, assholes, this is Marco. Marco, these are the assholes.” He smiled, all left. Jean pressed his knee to his thigh. _What are you so worried about? Don’t you know they’ll love you?_

Sasha squinted from across the circle. “What’s on your face?” Everyone gasped or groaned – Jean growled and leant back on his hands to kick her knee. “ _Ow!_ ”

“Rude ass bitch.” Sasha put on her puppy dog eyes; Jean sneered. Marco broke it all by laughing, face in his hands and shoulders shaking.

“Je-Jean, you called me – you called me freaking _Zuko_ for a _week_.” He flipped back his hair to show off his full face, shining in the shitty light, teeth white on mottled dull red.

“But your scar’s on the wrong side!” Eren cried, chin still on Armin’s head. Armin winced. Marco grinned, and the circle laughed. He dropped his hand, hair crazy now, and bit his lip.

“I liked you guys. Like. Liked. You were good.” Jean nudged his side with his shoulder. Marco shook his hair back in front of his face. Eren grinned the widest of them.

“You’re pretty chill, Marco. You’ve got good taste.” He leant forward more, Armin folding over his violin with a frown, and fixed Marco with his deep-sea stare. “Run now, while you still can.” Armin elbowed him in the stomach and shoved him away, breath fast and knuckles white on his violin. Eren groaned and fell onto Connie, who squawked and shoved him back. The three of them set to squabbling; the two girls sighed and turned to each other for sanity. Marco leant into Jean’s side, smile crinkling his face.

“They’re not so bad. Even if they are a little asshole-ish.”

“They’re in their element.” Marco’s fingers locked with his behind their backs, scarred hand rough on the back of his palm. “They’re not too much for you?”

“Nah.” Connie reared back to slap Eren upside his dumb head; Sasha caught his hand and jerked his attention around. Connie’s eyes flickered to Jean, who rolled his and leant to the side to show his and Marco’s joined hands. _Stupid romance drama_. Connie’s forehead cleared. Jean leant back in, nestling into Marco’s denim side, head on his collarbone. Marco’s muscles jumped beneath him, but as no one in the circle looked away from their own lives, he relaxed, chin on Jean’s hair. Jean sighed and closed his eyes.

* * *

Marco had been an observer in someone else’s world too many times – par for the course with a job built on infiltrating people’s houses. Being with Jean’s friends, meeting them and watching them laugh, sort of felt like that – he was too new to know when to laugh with them and when to do it at them. But this time he had Jean, glued to his side from the moment they’d walked in the door, grounding him when the noise grew and the press of too many people after so long alone thumped too loud in his head. Not that he said that – or that he was still a little sluggish from his stress-bug. It was nice, though, to have a person to lean on when he didn’t feel like standing alone, especially when that person smelled like leather and cinnamon and was the perfect height for his chin.

Jean’s band’s second set was as eclectic and energetic as the first. Armin opened with a cover of “Devil Went Down To Georgia” that frayed his bowstrings while Eren did his best Southern rock impression. That was followed by “Smells Like Teen Spirit” – or maybe it was the Weird Al cover. Or maybe Eren just forgot the words. It was hard to tell when Jean’s hair covered his face (his hair was all cinnamon, Old Spice and coarse from bleach and sweaty). Jean didn’t seem to mind his hiding, staying mostly still through that and the hoarse “Teenagers” cover that followed after, tapping his fingers on Marco’s wrists at his waist and giving into Marco’s sloth arms. Marco hadn’t had physical contact like this – in years, oh, and he drank it right out of the hollow behind Jean’s ear. He’d been too torn up to appreciate the points and jerks of Jean’s body the other night, but in this dark room, everyone else as close as them, he had the time.

“Teenagers” ended in a cloud of electric guitar feedback and screams from the crowd. Eren grinned at everyone and ducked out of his guitar strap, helping Connie out from the cramped drumset seat as Armin tucked his violin under his chin and Mikasa pressed some buttons on the top of her keyboard.

“Oh, they finally got this one figured out?” Jean’s mumble vibrated through Marco’s cheek. Marco cracked his eyes as Armin took a breath and started his first note in time with Mikasa.

It only took fifteen seconds for the room to still, caught in the spell of Armin and Mikasa, a quiet duet falling together. Both of them had their eyes closed, bodies turned towards each other, everyone watching. Marco’s heart beat in his ears – Jean’s beat through his hands. Marco laced his fingers together over Jean’s stomach and swayed. Jean’s breath caught and stuttered.

The peaceful moment ended. Jean sighed. “Told you they were the best.”

Armin lowered his violin. Mikasa changed the settings on her keyboard and cleared her throat.

“ _All of the lights!_ ”

Mikasa’s keyboard was a trumpet now, tinny and processed, but the poor quality was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Marco squeaked (lost in the noise) and hid his face in Jean’s hair. Jean laughed and patted his hand, back flush to Marco’s chest (again).

“Told you Connie thinks he’s Kanye,” Jean said into Marco’s forehead, lips tickling. Marco hugged him tighter as heat, _heat_ , flushed through him. He swallowed, mouth dry.

“Hey, d’you…” Marco lifted his head to look at Jean’s turned face. “D’you wanna get outta here?”

“What? But this is the last song, and we’ve been working on this for months-” Marco mouthed what he could reach – the shell of Jean’s ear, ridged and warm. “Uh. Yeah, sure.” Marco smiled and traced his tongue around a ridge – Jean shuddered in his arms and yanked away, hauling himself out of Marco’s arms, gasping and staring back at him, brown and black and white. “You’re a bastard.” Marco’s mouth twitched up. Jean groaned, spun in a quick circle on his heel, snatched at Marco’s hand (missed the first time). “Come _on_ , asshole, let’s _go_.”

Marco laughed and followed his lead through the crowd, waving at Hitch as they passed through the front room and out, the chill stillness a slap to the face after the Firehouse. They ran around the corner of the building towards the parking lot.

In the first pocket of shadow they passed, Jean spun them around by their hands to shove Marco against the brick wall. Marco winced, gasped, hummed, as Jean clasped against him and stuck his tongue in his mouth, kissing him hard and wet and sloppy. Marco set his hands on Jean’s back (under his jacket) and held him up, closing his eyes and tilting his head into it, shivering and shaking, the music from across the wall vibrating into his shoulders. Jean’s hands held his face close, bones digging into Marco’s ribs and his stomach and his hips. He sighed, stuttering into Jean’s mouth. Jean shifted forward, a little to the side, hands cupping his neck as his ravenous devouring slowed, teeth clacking teeth and chapped lips scrapping. His tongue dipped in the empty spot of his missing bottom tooth (lost to a playground slide when he was eleven). Marco’s fingers twisted in his shirt, trapped under Jean’s leather jacket, heart skittering. _Too too too too too much_

He yanked his head back, cracking it on the bricks behind him. Stars, black, shooting, _Ay, jueputa._

“Shit.” Jean’s hands slid through his hair, stepping back from the wall. “You okay, Zuko?” Marco jerked, laughed breathless, eyes still closed. Jean was still against him, but less, just close.

“Fine.” He slid his hands out of Jean’s jacket. “Just a little… much.”

Jean sprang back, two yards between them before Marco could blink, eyes wide and black and white. “Oh fuck, shit, sorry, you should’ve said – I just-” He dithered more, inching away, Marco pressed a hand to his face (it was wet) and laughed.

“You’re too much, Jean.” He stepped in and slung an arm around Jean’s neck, knocking their foreheads together _lightly_. “Too much.”

“Yeah?” Jean kept his eyes open, mouth too. Marco smiled.

“Yeah.” He let Jean go and started towards the parking lot. “C’mon, it’s way past your bedtime.”

“Hey! I’m an adult!” Marco made a face over his shoulder and raced Jean to the bike.

The ride home was freezing – Marco really needed to buy a pair of non-work gloves – but not too long. Jean pulled up in front of the store, driving through the empty parking spots like the other night, and took off his helmet when Marco dismounted. He took Marco’s helmet, stared at it. “So, this didn’t suck, right?” Marco rolled his eyes.

“Crazy kid.” He tousled Jean’s hair, making him rear back and snort. Marco bit his lip. “I’ll text you later, yeah?”

“Yeah?” Jean looked up at him, mouth open and quirking up on the left. He leant forward, yanked back. He coughed, turning away to fiddle with the straps of the helmets. “Yeah, cool.”

Marco chewed on his tongue, pressed a kiss to the hollow of Jean’s cheek when his face was turned. “Night, Jean.” Jean shoved his helmet over his flush, slung the extra one around his arm, and skidded away. Marco smiled and shook his head, turning to unlock the store.

His key met no resistance in the lock. A lump solidified in his stomach. He opened the door slowly, head poking in. A shape moved at the counter, and the lights flickered on. Sarge was sitting there, counting out coins and his forehead a field of furrows. The lump split, moving deeper and higher. Marco gasped around it.

“Sick, huh.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: Prepare for some mood whiplash. Next chapter WILL be the last, I swear. [tumblr](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com) [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/carriecmoney) [blog tag for this story](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com/tagged/jeanmarco-cinderella-story-au)}

Marco froze in the doorway and watched Sarge count out nickels into the cash drawer, breath hung in his throat and a sour ball in his stomach.

“I was willing to let you off about that, you know. Playing hooky. Stace would’ve let you.” His tone was level, gaze stuck on the chinking coins. Marco’s hands shook at his sides, clenched at his mother’s name. “She’d probably rip me a new one at how I treat you now.” He looked up at the nails across the aisle, frown etched in his face and florescent lights casting black shadows under his wrinkles. “But she’s not _here_ , is she.”

Marco exhaled, long and shaky. “No, sir.”

“No, sir.” The last nickel clinked into the drawer. “My sister was the last true family I had left. My _only_ family.” He turned to stare at Marco. “And you _took her_.”

“I-I didn’t-”

“Didn’t what? Didn’t _mean_ to?” Sarge stood and started towards him. “It doesn’t matter what you _meant_ , criminal, it matters what you _did_.” He stopped a pace from Marco, folds on his face stark and plenty. This close, Marco could hear Sarge’s breathing – as hard as his own. “You took her, you turned to _this_.” He flapped his hand at Marco. “I told Stace I could smarten you up, when you started your disrupting, but she told me it was unnecessary.” Marco stared hard at the rows of hammers hanging from their pegs and swallowed hard, lump blocking words. “I’ve done what I can to fix that, and I thought it was sticking. And now I find you canoodling with the Kirschstein boy!” Marco jerked, inhaling sharply, and stared up at Sarge, who snorted. “You thought I didn’t notice? He’s always been no good, and his mother’s a pushover. I thought I taught you better.”

Marco made a rude noise in the back of his throat, looking down. “Didn’ teach me ‘nythin’.”

“What? Speak up, boy, so I can hear you when you backtalk!”

“You haven’t taught me _anything!_ ” he snarled, glaring at Sarge’s shoulder. “All you’ve taught me is how to be bitter, and lonely, and _hard_.” He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t want to be like you.”

Sarge swelled, opened his mouth. Marco snapped and sneered. “If this is you _punishing_ me for Mom and Dad, _fine_ , I get it. Don’t you think I punish myself enough? Is _this_ not enough?” He dragged his hand down his scarred half, blunt fingernails catching, calluses scraping, feet shifting in place. “I hurt _all the time_ , Sarge, _always!_ And I was – finally-” He scratched his fingers down his hair, face scrunched. “I was getting _better_.” He gasped for air, palms in his eye sockets. “I can’t _live_ like this, I _can’t_ , I-” He stepped back, eyes burning. “You, you could move on, you could keep going, but I’ve been - _stuck_ , stuck in these scars, and I’ll _never_ be okay!” He rubbed hard at his wet left eye ( _his right eye can’t cry, anymore_ ). He sucked in a breath, a breath, a breath, kaleidoscopes scattering his vision, stomach guilt ball pushing up bile. “You can’t punish me, you can’t _fix_ me!” He choked, coughed, swayed. “No one can.”

Sarge didn’t say anything, didn’t move. Marco’s tears seeped down his wrists, soaking his shirt cuffs, riddled with holes already. ( _He’d used his one nice warm thing on the first date and had to dig in the laundry for a shirt without stains-_ )

Sarge sighed. “I’m the one who has to look at you every day.”

Marco coughed on his spit and snot, shoulders hunched. _True true true true true_

Jean thought his face was neat.

“You’re not the only one.” He wiped his eye and nose on his shoulder, stiff denim scratching. His chest pulled tight, but he straightened his spine and rolled his shoulders back. “And I don’t have to live like this.”

“What?”

Marco tilted his chin up and glared into Sarge’s eyes. “I-I quit. Be your own _damned_ slave.” He stepped back, into the door, stumbling as it gave behind him. “Don’t- I hope you don’t treat your daughter better than me.”

Sarge took a step, lip curling. “You have no idea what I’ve done for that girl.”

“No.” His hand clutched the bar of the door behind his back. “And I never will.” He rolled out of the door and ran down the block, lungs constricting in the cold air, his breath wet and ugly and choking. He turned into the first opening he found – the ivied alley between two shops that led to an art gallery – and fell against the wall, grimacing, fingers hard on the back of his neck. He tapped his head back on the brick, cried out, teeth bared, and sank down the wall into the dirt. He put his head between his knees and gasped, head spinning, breeze lifting his hair and stinging his wet cheek.

He had no idea how long he sat there, gasping and heaving, barely even thinking. _Too much too much too much too much too much_

His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. His hand trembled as he pulled it out blind, dropping it in the dirt twice before he shook it open.

From: Jean  
I hope you had a good time like I had a good time  
Sun, Mar 20, 12:31 am

From: Jean  
Next time we can kiss on a pillow ;)  
Sun, Mar 20, 12:31 am

He laughed, coughed, pressed his leaking eye to his knee. He could… He shook his head hard, alley-world spinning around him. He opened his contact list, scrolled down, hit Send. It took three rings.

“ _Davai._ ”

“Annie?” Cloth rustling on the other end.

“ _Marco?_ ” The corner of his mouth twitched.

“I need some help.” Cloth rustling louder.

“ _Oh zhe moi – Jesus, where are you – was it Jean, it was Jean, I’ll get my knuckles_ -”

“Sarge, Ann, not Jean.” _Deep breath._ “He caught me. I quit. There was yelling.” He coughed. “I’m- I’m at the Dog  & Pony alley.”

“ _Shit, Marco, oh my God, I’ll be there, stay_ right _where you are._ ” She barked something in Russian away from the phone speaker. “ _Bertl’s coming, too_.”

“Thanks, Ann.” His smile tried, it really did. He exhaled and gripped the phone harder. “Thanks.”

* * *

Jean woke up slow the next morning, falling in and out of sleep for a good hour before he rolled onto his back and stretched, rolling his neck. He turned on his side and squeezed his extra pillow, smiling into it, _giggling_. Sundays were great days, even for a Jew.

The best thing about Sunday was that the circus left the building. When he meandered his way downstairs, humming last night’s Yellowcard song, the house was empty like it should be, only the office-y inanimate objects wrecking the décor.

His mom was in the kitchen, reading a case file over a bucket of oatmeal. She smiled up at him, glasses askew. He adjusted them as he passed to the fridge.

“You have a nice night, dear?”

“Yeah.” Jean opened the fridge and smiled dreamily at the milk. “Super nice.”

She laughed. “Your new boy was involved, I take it?”

“He _was_ my night.” He blinked, smile falling, and whipped his head around. “Not like – we didn’t do anything risky – we barely made out-”

She snorted, shaking over her oatmeal. “Jean, dear, it’s all right. You _are_ an adult, at least legally.” He frowned and pulled out an apple from the crisper, closing the door with his shoulder. “Are you going to tell me his name yet?”

“It’s Marco.” He stuck his apple under the faucet and flicked the sticker down the drain, leaning back against the counter as he took the first bite. “He’s, uh, that guy who fixed our AC last week.”

She frowned, eyebrows furrowed. “The tall one or the…” She gestured at the right side of her side. He nodded, pointed with his apple.

“That one, yeah.” He took another bite. She shook her head.

“Do I want to know how that happened?”

 _I picked a stranger up off the side of the road and fed him pizza_. “No, probably not.” She chuckled, rubbing one eye with her palm, uncapped pen drawing a shaky blue line on her forehead. “It’s okay, though, he’s cool. You’ll like him.” He grinned and bit off another apple chunk. “He wansta vote f’you.”

“Oh, well, in that case.” Jean jerked, back of his hand holding his mouth closed so apple wouldn’t spray everywhere. “You said ‘wants to’, though?”

He swallowed, coughed. _Damn judicial language filters_. “Oh, yeah, well, there’s a thing. It’s not as bad as it sounds…” He scratched the nape of his neck. “I should let him explain it.”

She raised her eyebrows, idly stirring her oatmeal. “That bad, huh?”

“Yeaaah.” He sighed and slumped back against the counter. “Still think you’ll like him. And I mean it this time.”

“Election season, Jean. Think he’s nice enough to handle _that?_ ”

He curled his lip at the floor. “Maybe? It’s only been, like, a week, I don’t think he even – we haven’t talked about, that, y’know, a lot. At all.” _Marco laughing at Sasha’s question, eyes squinted shut_ “He’d probably be okay.”

She hummed and dropped her oatmeal spoon to reach for her orange juice. “Well, Petra and her baby are coming over for dinner tonight. See if he wants to join us.” When Jean blinked at her, teeth sunk in the apple, she lowered her glass and gave him her best Mom look. “Is there a problem?”

“No! No, no, it’s fine – I’ve just known him a _week_ , that’s all, and – he might think this is too fast? Maybe?”

She raised her eyebrows higher, head tilting down to look over her glasses. “Baby, I let you go to that concert last night. You owe me.”

“ _Fine_.” His apple was dripping on his hand. He sucked the juice off the browning wounds. “I’ll ask him if he’s available.”

“Good boy.” She smiled and waved him off. “Now, shoo, I need to read this.” He made a face at her and ducked out onto the patio to eat his leaking apple over the azaleas.

It was a still morning, the cold suspended over the backyard, the only sounds birdcalls and squirrel chatter. He leant on the railing and ate his apple, watching a pair of cardinals flirt and fight on a dirty mound of hardened snow.

He was cleaning of the bits of apple flesh from the core when the cardinals scattered, along with a squirrel digging in the dead flowerbed. He frowned and looked around – something was crashing through the trees behind the house (they hid the powerline trail, a secret avenue between the houses that children used to sneak to their friends’ and back). Whatever it was had a soldier mouth and an elephant walk. Jean straightened as a lanky figure in a red sweatshirt kicked through the last privet hedge and stomped right on a hosta.

“Ymir? What the hell?”

She stopped and looked up at his yell. “Hey! You!” She clomped right at him, dark hair wild and frizzing out of her ponytail. He stood back. “The hell’re you doing just _standing around?_ ”

“Uh? What _are_ you talking about?”

Ymir stamped to a stop on the other side of the azaleas, growling up at him. “Don’t ‘ _what_ ’ me, you know _exactly_ what happened with Marco last night!”

Jean titled his head, eyebrows furrowing. “But – what? He was fine when I dropped him off last night – he hasn’t texted me back yet, but that’s not weird for him-” He dropped his apple core in the bushes. “Did something happen?”

“ _Yeah_ , something _happened!_ ” She crossed her arms and snorted, breath fogging. “Marco quit!”

Jean jerked. “He what?”

“God, you’re a jerk boyfriend.” Ymir narrowed her eyes. Jean pulled at the scraps of hair behind his ear.

“Uh, well, we haven’t actually – I don’t know if we’re at the ‘boyfriend’ stage of things yet…” Ymir made a rude noise and pushed aside the skeleton branches of the azaleas to haul her tall ass up on the patio, grunting as she wedged her feet under the runner of the railing and looped her arms over the top to hold herself up by the slats. This close, she was still boiling mad, but her face had salt streaks and her eyes had red rims. _How much does it suck to have Sarge as a parent?_

“Do you _wanna_ be the bf?”

“Yes. _Hell_ yes. Most definitely, absolutely.”

She stared him down, jaw clenched. “I don’t know exactly what happened last night.” She looked away, chin to her collarbone. “I know Sarge came home at, like, one in the goddamn morning, scary quiet mad, and didn’t even notice me’n Krista – well, y’know.” She glared holes into the patio planks. “When I checked my phone, I had, like, five texts from Annie, saying Marco was with her and tell Sarge to go fuck himself with a rake, so I called her. It was mostly Russian, but the English I got boiled down to Sarge catching him coming home late, they had a fight, Marco quit and ran off, and Annie rescued him and took him home.”

Jean frowned, stomach writhing. “Annie who?”

“Oh, Leonhardt, y’know, the little angry Russian girl in our _graduating class_ , jackass. She works for Sarge now, with her two boys.” Ymir folded double over the railing so Jean couldn’t see her face. “Well – for now, they work for Sarge. Shit, they might quit, too, after this.”

“Oh.” He kicked a railing slat. “And he didn’t call me?”

“Uh, dude, he’s known you, like, a week, and Annie and her boys have been working with him for years. Plus she’s got this ‘I will kill for you’ vibe with people she likes. I’m just pissed he didn’t call _me_ – or Krista, she’s built for this, but I’m his fucking _cousin!_ ” She straightened and swung back, hanging off the patio by her hands and toes. “Whatever. He called Annie. Sarge is pissed, and he’s pissing _me_ off, so I left him to his pissbaby mood and came over to see what kind of jerkass material you’re made of.” She squinted her almond eyes at him, mouth puckered. “So? What’re you gonna do about it, punk?”

He gaped. “I’m supposed to _do_ something?”

Ymir groaned and hit her head on the railing. “Unbelievable.”

“What? I’m kind of new to this whole ‘giving a shit’ thing! I don’t have a _clue_ where to start!”

Ymir crouched, hugging three slats and chin on the railing. “Let’s see. Your new romantic interest, as of last night, is jobless, homeless, and depending on the goodwill of people who work for his old boss-landlord. Oh, and he can’t get hired or lease anything in this backwards town because of his fucked-up rap sheet. Gee, what could a rich kid like you with a big ol’ fancy house do to help?”

Jean stuck his tongue out at her. “You’re a rich kid with a fancy house, too!”

“Mine doesn’t have a third story.” She made a face. “’Sides, the _last_ place he needs to be right now is my place, moron.” She grinned, canines showing. “But I’ve got a credit card and total access to Sarge’s _personal_ account.”

“Rich kid revenge. Classic.” Jean grinned back. “Go get him something _really_ nice.”

“Yeah, like a fucking _car_ or some shit.” She swung up and sat on the railing, ankles locked around the slats for balance. Jean chuckled – wait.

“Hang on.” He wiped his hands on his sweatpants. “If you’re serious, like _dead_ serious, then I might have a thing. But only ‘cause it’s Marco.” Ymir cocked her head and swung her legs over the railing, following Jean into the house with drawn eyebrows and hands in her sweatshirt pocket.

* * *

Marco slept awful on Annie’s couch, never fully falling unconscious, the blanket too small, the upholstery too itchy. He gave up when the sun peeked through the blinds of the living room, throwing off the tiny blanket and going to fight with an unfamiliar kitchen and an unfamiliar coffee maker.

Annie found him there an hour later, on his second cup and still exhausted. She drained the pot and sat beside him, hands curled around her metallic mug.

“We’re all quitting, the three of us.” Marco jerked up from his coffee. “It’s not right, what he did, and he needs to know that.”

“No!” Marco cleared his scratchy throat. Annie inspected him from under her bangs. “No, you shouldn’t do that. I quit, he didn’t _fire_ me. It’s not entirely his fault.” He spun his cup around on the table. “You shouldn’t lose your job because of me.”

She snorted. “I know this might be a bitter pill to swallow, but it’s not all sunrises and roses to work for Sarge even when he _doesn’t_ hate your guts. We’ve been talking about this a while; this is just the last straw.” She sipped her coffee. “It’s past time for us to move on. We’ve been in this town for far too long.” She looked up at him, eyes soft. “We’ll make sure you’re okay before we leave, don’t worry.”

“Leave? Where to?”

Annie shrugged. “My boys wanna be in a city for a while. I’ll leave it up to them to figure out what that means.” She hid her smile behind her cup, watched him as she took a long pull of her coffee. “You’ll be all right, kid.”

They talked for a while, about where they would go, how they would quit, what customers they wouldn’t miss. They ended up making another pot of coffee when Reiner and Bertl woke up and dragged themselves down to the kitchen. Gossiping with the three of them, no work or Sarge in the way, Marco almost felt normal – at least, as normal as he’d felt since he’d been released from prison.

Bertl left at some point to go man the store and pretend like he hadn’t picked Marco up at one in the morning the night before. Reiner made lunch for the three of them, forcing Marco back down when he tried to get up and help. They were finishing up a family-size bag of chips when a horn honked outside. Annie stood. “That must be Ymir.” She put her phone in her sweatshirt pocket – had she been texting the whole time? “She’s here to pick you up.”

“She’s _what?_ ”

“Relax, _zharpitza_ , she’s not here to take you to her place. Just out of ours.” She left the kitchen and headed to the front of the house; Reiner and Marco exchanged a glance and followed.

Ymir’s piece of crap Jeep wasn’t outside like he’d expected. Instead, there was a taxi-yellow Harley, dent in the fuel tank, and two familiar helmets being taken off.

Ymir ran up to him as soon as she was free, chucking her helmet aside. “Holy shit, Marco, what the hell?” She strangled him in a fast hug. “You’re supposed to wait until I’m _there_ to go off on Sarge.”

He laughed, patting her on the back with his pinned arm. “Sorry. Just sort of happened.” He knocked his forehead on her thin shoulder. “You’re not mad?”

“ _Fuck_ , Marco.” She released him, hands resting in the dips of his arms. “I’ve been trying to tell him this shit was gonna bite him in the ass if he didn’t lay off forever, but getting him to listen is like – like tryin’ to make the Earth move faster.” She rubbed his arms – her eyes were red. “I’m glad you’re okay, Squeakers.”

He swallowed on the lump in his throat. “Thanks, Miri-biri.”

Behind her back, Annie and Reiner had moved in on Jean, arms crossed and hovering as he leant away onto the seat of his motorcycle. Oh dear. “What’s Jean doing here?”

“Oh, I made him come.” Ymir grinned, and Marco thought of lions. “He’s being a baby about the whole ‘boyfriend’ thing, so I’m making him man up.”

“Boyfriend?” Marco coughed away the squeak in his throat. Ymir snorted.

“ _Men_.” She swung them around so Marco was facing the bike, Jean, and his interrogators, her holding his elbows from behind, chin on his shoulder. “You like your new ride?” He choked, face hot and hand pressed to his mouth. Ymir slapped his head. “Not _him_ , you perv, what he’s _sitting on_.”

He blinked, hand still over his mouth. “Huh?”

She groaned, slumping against him. “ _God_ , you’re slow today. Look, I needed to get back at Sarge for being an extra-large, grade A asshole, and Jean needed to prove his boyfriend-ness, and he also had a thing you like for sale. An _expensive_ thing.”

 _Clickclickclickclick_ “You did not. No. No way! I can’t!”

“Sure you can.” She wrapped her arms around his neck; he squirmed. “He told me he’d _give_ it to you, if you’d let him.”

“Wha- _no!_ ”

“Exactly.” She paused, frowning at his face. “Hmph. Thought you’d be like this.” She undraped herself and shoved her hands in her sweatshirt pocket. Marco turned to face her as she looked at the cracked sidewalk, kicking her foot. “Here’s what I thought. I can put my name on the lease, so technically it’ll be mine and I’ll keep it in my garage and shit. But you’re free to use it whenever your big little heart desires.” She shrugged. “I know it’s a lot, all at once. And Sarge is gonna kill me. But, y’know. It’ll work.”

Marco nodded. “I guess I should… go thank him, huh?”

She smiled, a flash of teeth. “Yeah you should.”

He patted her arm and turned – Annie and Reiner were still laying into Jean, who had arched farther away from them, bike tipping on its stand. Marco shook his head.

“Hey, back off, guys.” He walked in between them and yanked Jean off the bike into his arms. “Thanks.”

“Oh. You’re, y’know, welcome and shit.” Hands came up to hover over his back, Jean’s face on his shoulder. “I gave Ymir a huge discount. I hope you’re happy.” Marco jerked, laughing, hugging Jean tight until he was all bones, jutting and stiff. Jean laughed with him, coarse hair brushing his scars. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll be okay.”

“You said ‘will be’.”

“Yeah.” Marco sighed into Jean’s hair. “Can we do the boyfriend thing?”

“Yes. Hell yes. _Motherfuckin’_ yes.” Marco laughed and let him go. Jean rolled a shoulder back, wincing. “Fuck, you’re strong.”

“Thanks.” He looked down at the bike. “So she’s mine, huh?”

“If you want her.” Jean grinned. “Gotta say, trading her in for a boyfriend. Not a bad deal.”

Marco punched his arm. Jean flinched, still grinning. “Shove it.”

Jean rubbed his arm and shrugged. “It’s sort of true, though, I guess?” Marco wrinkled his nose. Jean pulled the keys out of the ignition and held them out, head turned to the side. “Well- here. We can do the paperwork shit later.”

“Thanks.” Marco closed his hand around the key and caught a few of Jean’s fingers in the process. “Ymir and I’ll take good care of her.”

“Ymir? Ah, fuck it, I don’t care.” Jean stepped closer, twisting their fingers together. “Mom wants you to come over for dinner.”

Marco swallowed. “Tonight?”

“Yeah, unless you wanna get picked apart by the whole campaign team instead of just her. And Pet.” Jean cocked his head. “What’s bad about that?”

“It’s just-” He chewed his lip. “I’m kind of wearing everything I own right now? Quitting and running doesn’t exactly leave time for packing.”

“Oh.” Jean gave him a once-over (he shivered). “I think you look great. Who cares what you wear?”

Marco couldn’t help but smile. “Not everyone is my new boyfriend, Jean. I’ll need to buy new clothes-”

“I just heard Marco say ‘buy’!” Ymir called from where she, Annie, and Reiner were talking. “Whatever it is, I’m in!”

Marco frowned over his shoulder at her. “ _No_ , Ymir. No you’re not!”

“Okay, now I most _definitely_ am.” She came over and leant her entire weight into his side (he braced himself a moment before impact). “What’m I gettin’ ya, hot stuff?” Marco rolled his eyes. Ymir copied him and glared at Jean. “What’s he need?”

“Clothes to impress my mom in. Not that he needs them, of course.” A beat – Jean turned fuschia, Marco turned wooden, and Ymir turned hyena. “I-I mean-”

“Can it, Kirschstein, I get it, chill.” She slapped Marco’s stomach, still grinning. “You two were meant to be. C’mon, Hound, we’re going shopping.”

Marco stared. “With _you?_ ”

She sneered. “Jerk. I’ll get Krista to come, she’ll freak. Shopping’s like sex to her.” She tousled his hair. “And we can do something about _this_ , too.”

“ _What?_ ”

She shoved away from him (he stumbled a step to the side) to retrieve the scattered helmets. “All right, let’s go!”

“Wait - _you’re_ not driving my baby!”

She raised her eyebrows at Jean. “Well, seeing as I spent, like, every summer of my life dirt biking, uh, yeah I am.” She put on a helmet and threw the spare at Marco. “C’mon!”

Marco fumbled the catch and looked to Annie for help. “But- Jean-”

“Don’t worry about him.” The corners of her mouth deepened. Reiner behind her crossed his arms and grinned. “We’ll take care of him.”

“What kind of fucking coworkers _are_ these?” Jean mumbled from his side.

“Good ones.”

“Burning daylight, people!”

Marco shook his head and kissed Jean’s cheek, heart stuttering. “Sorry. See you tonight.”

“Uh. Yeah. Night.” Jean smiled at him, teeth barely showing and eyes unfocused. Marco yanked the helmet on over his flush.

* * *

Jean spent the rest of his day hiding in his room so he wouldn’t accidentally spill all of Marco’s beans to his mom.

After he got a ride from the smallest, most terrifying woman he’d ever met (she’d gotten so much scarier since high school), he’d dithered in the front foyer for a good five minutes. He could go tell his mom about the bike, but then he’d have to tell her about the boyfriend (holy _fuck_ ) thing, then about the job thing, then about the felony thing, and he wouldn’t be able to stop until it was all out, like hangover vomit. She was just like that; it was the majority of the reason she was good at her job. She’d learn it all eventually, of course, but Jean had a habit of telling things in a not-positive manner. Marco trusted him, and he wasn’t about to break that only (he checked his watch) forty-two minutes into their relationship.

So he went upstairs without announcing he was home, losing himself in his analysis textbook with his phone resting on his leg.

From: MARCO  
Ymir is a madman help me save me  
Sun, Mar 20, 2:16 pm

From: Jean  
Spy kids ref? Im gonna marry you  
Sun, Mar 20, 2:20 pm

From: MARCO  
:)  
Sun, Mar 20, 2:21 pm

From: MARCO  
No but really shes crazy. Need k to get here  
Sun, Mar 20, 2:28 pm

From: MARCO  
K IS WORSE SHE IS SO MUCH WORSE  
Sun, Mar 20, 2:49 pm

From: Jean  
Hahahahahahah  
Sun, Mar 20, 2:53 pm

From: MARCO  
I am so tired of taking my clothes off  
Sun, Mar 20, 3:17 pm

From: Jean  
Rawr  
Sun, Mar 20, 3:23 pm

From: MARCO  
Shut up. Youre terrible  
Sun, Mar 20, 3:36 pm

From: MARCO  
Hey tell them i dont need a haircut  
Sun, Mar 20, 4:01 pm

From: Jean  
I think your face is neat and I would like to see more of it all the time  
Sun, Mar 20, 4:10 pm

From: Jean  
Your choice tho  
Sun, Mar 20, 4:11 pm

From: MARCO  
Augh i hate you  
Sun, Mar 20, 4:15 pm

From: MARCO  
Never asked - what time is dinner?  
Sun, Mar 20, 4:32 pm

From: Jean  
Um idk whenever you’re hungry  
Sun, Mar 20, 4:34 pm

From: Jean  
Mom says aim for 6:30  
Sun, Mar 20, 4:39 pm

From: MARCO  
Well. Hair is cut  
Sun, Mar 20, 5:48 pm

From: Jean  
Damn son that took forever did you die it 5 colors or something  
Sun, Mar 20, 5:51 pm

From: MARCO  
No but like two thirds of it is gone i feel naked  
Sun, Mar 20, 5:55 pm

From: Jean  
I bet you look hot  
Sun, Mar 20, 5:56 pm

From: Jean  
Think I should ask mom if y and k can eat w/ us?  
Sun, Mar 20, 5:58 pm

From: MARCO  
Please no I need to get away. Plus y is taking your baby back to her house now and sarge is gonna blow his top  
Sun, Mar 20, 6:01 pm

From: Jean  
Tru that. You coming now?  
Sun, Mar 20, 6:02 pm

From: MARCO  
Yes. Just dropping off all the stuff y got me at k’s for now  
Sun, Mar 20, 6:04 pm

From: MARCO  
I tried to stop her  
Sun, Mar 20, 6:06 pm

From: Jean  
Hahahaha you were never gonna win that one. Text me when you’re here  
Sun, Mar 20, 6:09 pm

From: MARCO  
Sure thing  
Sun, Mar 20, 6:10 pm

From: MARCO  
Here  
Sun, Mar 20, 6:26 pm

Jean abandoned his analysis book (he’d managed to make progress between texts, surprisingly) and ran down the stairs, jumping half the bottom flight and almost bowling Petra over. He caught her before she could fall, laughing and spinning her around. Giggles bubbled out of her as she pulled out of his grip, smiling.

“What’s got into you, Jean?”

He grinned and spun in a circle, socks fast on the hardwood. “Marco’s here!”

“That’s your new boy, right?” He nodded, bouncing with it. She laughed. “Well, go get him – we’ll be in the back den when you’re ready.” He beamed and ran away, sliding around the corner to the front door.

He yanked it open without bothering to look through the glass border, grinning into Marco’s startled face, fist raised. His mouth fell open. “Holy shit, Zuko.”

Marco winced. “That bad?”

“Holy _shit_.” Jean clapped his hands to Marco’s face and yanked him down to his height. “I _love it_.”

“Really?” Marco smiled, white on red. A haircut had been the _best_ idea. Instead of hanging in strings over his face, covering as much as it could, shaggy and frizzed, now Marco’s hair was short – a little longer on top, enough to flop on his forehead, but not hiding his eyes. They’d buzzed the underside, no longer trying to disguise the burned part of his scalp but showing it off. Without all the dead weight, it had a wave to it, and it was soft between Jean’s fingers.

He brushed aside Marco’s bangs. “I didn’t know you had freckles on your forehead.”

Marco laughed, cheeks hot against Jean’s palms. “I’ve got freckles _everywhere_.”

Jean groaned and slid his hands down Marco’s face, neck, sweater – holy shit. “Damn, Ymir knows how to treat a broke cousin.” He rubbed a hand down Marco’s cashmere sleeve, a smooth cream that sat nice on his latte skin. Marco chuckled.

“It was mostly Krista, but Ymir helped.” He leant in, chocolate eyes crinkled. “Can I come in?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure.” Jean’s wandering hand slid into Marco’s and wrapped tight, pulling him into the house. “C’mon, Mom and the rest are in the back. You like kids, right?”

Marco followed his pull, closing the door as he came through. “Kids?” Jean grinned and led him through the house.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: Last one. Notes about the future at the end. [tumblr](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com) [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/carriecmoney) [blog tag for this story](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com/tagged/jeanmarco-cinderella-story-au)}

Jean hadn’t really thought about it yet, but he wasn’t surprised when Marco turned out to be great with kids.

Petra and his mom were playing with Todd and his travel collection of heavy machinery on the floor of the back den when he and Marco came in. They stopped when they appeared in the door, laughing, Petra holding Todd back from running at Jean. Jean’s arm swung back as Marco took two steps to stand behind him. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hey, sweetheart.” She leant to the side and smiled at Marco. “Hello, Marco.”

“Hello, Dr. Kirschstein.” Jean laughed under his breath, head bowing. His mom smiled wider.

“Oh, doctor. He’s good.” Jean tugged his hand – Marco bumped into his back. She dusted off her hands on her dress and stood to meet them. “Marianne works just as well, though.” She held out her hand, and Jean stepped aside so they could shake on it. She smiled into his eyes. “I like your new haircut.”

“Oh – thank you.” He ran his fingers through it, head tucked to the right. “I got it today.”

“Really? Well, it suits you.”

Jean was way too focused on their conversation to notice Todd’s escape from Petra until he slammed into his leg. “ _Oof!_ ”

“Fi’ twuck!” He grinned up at Jean, slobbery chin dropping on his jeans and banging his fire truck against his knee. Jean forced a smile.

“Yeah, squirt, fire truck.” He patted Todd’s curls with a flat hand. “Aren’t you just _precious_.”

“Sorry Jean!” Petra said, falling back on the couch across the room and grinning. “You know how much he loves you.”

“Yeah, like a cat loves a dog person.” He winced when Todd smacked the truck into his kneecap. “ _All right, you little-_ ”

Marco chuckled and knelt in front of him, catching the fire truck in the air. Todd looked at what stopped his banging and stared, mouth open. Marco smiled and held out his scarred hand. Todd looked down at it and let go of the truck to touch it with both hands.

“I see a lot of small kids out on my job,” he explained, letting Todd flip his hand around, bend his fingers, as he set the fire truck out of Todd’s reach. “You’d think they’d be scared, but they usually – well, do this.” Todd stared up at his face with his big brown eyes and grabbed it, smiling with his mouth open. Marco smiled back, lips bit shut, and glanced up at Jean, eyes crinkled. Jean smiled back. Todd yanked on Marco’s ear, and he winced.

“That’s enough, you little rat.” Jean reached down to hold Todd’s hands away from Marco’s face, but Marco shook his head and sat down.

“It’s fine, really.” He rolled up his sweater’s sleeve and held up his forearm to distract Todd from his face. “Kids are the only fun thing about all this.” Jean glanced up at his mom, who was watching the whole thing from behind Marco, all her laugh lines showing. She met his eyes and nodded once. Jean ducked his head down, smiling.

“I’m going to check the bread.” She left them just as Marco got Todd away from Jean’s leg and released him from his toddler bonds. Jean slipped away to Petra, who was watching her son and Marco with a smile, and sat on the arm of the couch, leaning in to talk low.

“Told you he was super nice.”

Petra nodded. “I didn’t doubt it.” She leant in closer. “The scars are different than I’d imagined.”

“Really?” She nodded again.

“Not nearly as bad.” She tilted her head and smiled wider as Todd clambered into Marco’s lap to look into his ear. “Todd likes him.”

“Thank God.” He (failed to) wink at her. “You know Mom can’t hate someone who likes babies.”

She laughed, hand pressed to her mouth. “Is that why she’s invited me here more since Todd was born?”

Jean snorted. “As soon as he’s making full sentences, you’ll be out the door.” She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Dinner’s ready!” They all jerked at his mom’s through-the-house yell. Petra got up to fetch her baby, who fussed at being taken from Marco until she distracted him with his old friend the fire truck. Marco stood and smiled at her.

“Sorry, I didn’t get to learn your name before I started playing with your kid.” She laughed, resting Todd on her hip.

“You’re fine, dear.” She slapped the fire truck out of Todd’s mouth without looking. “I’m Petra, Marianne’s assistant. I keep her head from falling off.” She jerked her head towards the door. “Speaking of.”

“Oh. Right! What’re we having?”

“Chili, I think, it’s been sitting all afternoon.”

“Oh my God, sounds fantastic, I’m _starving_.”

They left the back den together, Jean trailing behind them and smiling.

* * *

Marco made it through dinner ( _God_ was he tired) by focusing on eating but not spilling any ground beef on his expensive white sweater, answering the questions sent his way. Jean sat next to him and kept his socked foot pressed against Marco’s bare ankle. Mercifully, Jean’s mom didn’t pry at the table, but kept the conversation light, about Todd’s preschool and Jean’s childhood and ‘kids these days’. Jean egged her on, laughing when she talked about drinking out of the garden hose, snorting into his bowl. Marco watched him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and squint his eyes at his mom as she went on about biking in the woods and treehouses and old quarries.

When they were done, Marco started picking up the dishes automatically, waving off Jean and his mom as they tried to tell him he was a guest, he didn’t have to.

“It’s nice to be useful,” he said as he took an armful of bowls into the kitchen (Petra was too busy cleaning up Todd’s high chair disaster zone to care).

They ended up cleaning up the kitchen together, Jean’s mom washing, Marco drying, and Jean hovering.

“Jean, dear, would you go help Pet with Todd? I’m sure she could use the extra hand.” Jean scowled from where he was slumped over the island. She smiled sweetly at him. Marco’s chest tightened as Jean groaned and got up, shrugging at Marco and mouthing ‘ _sorry_ ’ behind her back before going back to the dining room.

As soon as he was out of the room, his mom turned on Marco. Oh dear.

“I want to be frank with you, Marco.” He set down the pot he was drying on the counter. “I love my son, to bits, but he isn’t known for his judge of character. You seem like a perfectly nice boy-” Marco smiled, and she flashed a smile back. “But Jean mentioned something earlier today about there being a thing – he wouldn’t tell me what, and told me to ask you about it. Now, even if I think you’re a nice boy, I’m running for governor, and as awful as it would be, I _can’t_ have my son’s choices affecting my ballot. If you want to date my son - at least before November – I’ll need to know.”

He nodded, playing with the edge of his dishtowel. “I understand, ma’am.” He swallowed. She waited, leaning on the sink. “Ah- about four years ago, my- my house burned down.” He rubbed behind his right ear. “My parents and my face burned with it.”

She hummed, frowning. “Sina?” He nodded. “I remember that. Just a little old for me, right?” He nodded again. “Who was your judge, then, Calhoun or McNeil?”

“McNeil.”

“Ah. He’s an asshole.”

Marco shook his hair in front of his eyes – oh, right, no hair. “Yeah. They dismissed the case eventually from lack of evidence, but it was long and awful and still on my record for another year.” He tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck, still looking down. “And I’d really wanted to vote for you, too.”

She laughed. “Well, the press’re gonna eat you up for lunch, especially once I get through the primaries.”

He blinked. “Press?” She nodded. “Oh. I… hadn’t really thought of… that.” He winced - his last encounter with a reporter, he’d still been burning and hadn’t exactly said the nicest things as he left the courtroom. “Oh dear.”

She sighed and turned back on the faucet. “Did you have plans for after parole?”

He picked up his pot again. “Quitting my job – well, I did that already.” He grimaced. “There’s that, too. And I moved out onto my friend’s couch, and-” He sighed and dropped his chin to his chest. “It’s been a rough week.”

She chuckled. “Jean makes my life harder, too.”

He smiled back at her - her brown eyes had a ring of orange around the pupil. “I wanna go to law school.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Do you now?”

He nodded and set the pot aside. “I got screwed over. I’d like to make sure no one else does.” He shrugged. “Big words for someone who barely graduated high school before getting arrested, I know.”

She cocked her head to the side and considered him, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s good to have goals.” He smiled at her, and she shook her head. “My son finally brings home a nice boy and he’s a felon.” Marco snorted on his laugh just as Jean slid into the kitchen on his socks, panting.

“Okay! Pet and her brat are gone, no one died, right?” Marco and his mom exchanged a glance. She winked, and he grinned. Jean groaned and slumped over the island counter. “I leave you alone for _five minutes_ and you’re best friends.” He knocked his forehead on the counter, then glared up at Marco. “I blame you.”

“Me?”

Jean pointed at him, nose wrinkled. “You’re too stinking charming. You could make a tree fall in love with you.”

“Sounds like a challenge.” Jean groaned and faceplanted on the counter again, ears red under his bleached hair.

* * *

Jean got Marco away from his mom as soon as the dishes were put away, shooing her into her case file or whatever as he led Marco upstairs to his room. (His mom shook her head when excuses tumbled out of his mouth like lemmings, but she didn’t try to force them anywhere. Best mom ever.)

Marco paused at the base of the upper stairs, smile all left and coughing on his laugh. “I didn’t believe you _actually_ had a third story.”

Jean shrugged. “It’s more like an attic with a bathroom, but I guess it counts.” He pulled him up the stairs by the hand. “Mom didn’t say anything awful when I was gone, right?”

“Nah, just normal mom stuff.”

“Good. Great.”

They crested the top of the staircase, and Marco raised his eyebrows at the huge, open room around him. “An attic, huh?”

“A nice, finished attic?” Jean shrugged. “I like it, so I live in it.”

Marco glanced around at the chaos of ripped jeans, sweaty band shirts, open textbooks, the whiteboard-painted wall with equations scrawled across it, empty soda bottles, and the nest of his bed. Was he supposed to be embarrassed by this? Before he could decide, Marco’s eyebrows drew together, head tilted, and he let go of Jean’s hand to cross the room.

“Oh my God.” He picked up a white mask Jean’d thrown in the space between books on his shelf and promptly forgotten about. “You kept this?”

“Kept what?” Jean came closer. “That was – was…” He looked up at Marco, mouth open. “No. No!”

Marco burst out laughing, hand holding the mask wiping at his eye. Jean snatched it away and pressed it to Marco’s face, squinting to just shapes and colors-

“Oh my _fucking_ God!” He threw the mask to the ground, stomped his foot, hit Marco hard on the shoulder. “I _hate_ you!”

Marco couldn’t stop laughing, bent in on himself and eyes clenched shut, body shaking. Jean scowled and hit him again. “Were you _ever_ gonna tell me that – that thing?”

Marco grinned at him, still shaking, chocolate eyes too close. “I didn’t think I’d _have_ to.”

“You led me on!” Jean shoved his chest. “Asshole!”

Marco caught his wrist, holding Jean’s gaze. “That’s not very nice, Jean.” He smiled, head tilting down a little. “You called me _Martin_.”

“Oh my God. Did I?” He covered his eyes with his free hand, cheeks burning. Marco laughed, softer.

“You did.” His forehead knocked into Jean’s shoulder. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Oh.” Jean’s wrist was still trapped between them in Marco’s grasp. “Is it bad that I ‘d totally forgotten about that-you for this-you?” Marco chuckled, reverberating down Jean’s shoulder into his chest.

“No, it’s not bad. Funny, though.” He yawned against Jean’s shoulder, jaw popping in his ear. He hummed and wrapped his free arm around Jean’s waist. Jean gulped.

“If you’re tired, y’know, there is a bed. Right over there.” Marco jerked up, blinking fast. Jean smiled. “Can’t be comfortable sleeping standing up.”

“Sorry.” Marco pulled away from their accidental embrace, dropping Jean’s wrist. “S’been a long day. Week. Year.”

“I bet.”

“I should probably call Krista to come pick me up, actually, I don’t want to keep her up too late-”

“Marco.” Jean smiled at him. Marco blinked. “You’ll be fine. I gotcha.”

“Yeah?”

Jean nodded. “C’mere.”

Jean sprawled on his stomach across his bed, patting the spot next to him and grinning up at Marco. He sat down shock-straight at first, but within ten minutes of talking, he’d joined Jean in his sprawl, pillow tucked to his chest and eyes closed. He talked about Ymir, how she’d gotten him into the party, about Krista, about their silly kid nicknames for each other. Jean propped his chin on his hand and watched his face shift through the stories, burnt half always a step behind.

Marco trailed off in the middle of a sentence, mouth parted. His forehead smoothed out; his breathing evened. Jean shook his head.

“Unbelievable.” Marco curled in tighter, face disappearing in the pillow. Jean watched his side rise and fall for a little while before slipping off the bed and padding downstairs.

His mom was in her office, glasses askew. She looked up when he came in. “Yes, dear?”

“Marco’s asleep. He conked out on my bed in, like, two seconds.” He came around her desk to lean back against it, adjusting her glasses. “Do you think – would it be a bad idea if he could stay here? For a while?”

She frowned. “I don’t know how I feel about letting a stranger live in my house, baby.” She held up her hands on his bubbling protests. “Yes, I know, you like him, but he’s still pretty much a stranger.” Jean bit his lip. She sighed. “Do you know where he’s supposed to be tonight?”

He nodded. “A friend’s letting him sleep on her couch. Dunno how long that’ll last, though.” He paused. “Oh, yeah, and she’s Ymir’s girlfriend.”

“Ymir found someone who’d put up with her? She must be a saint.”

“ _Mom!_ ” She chuckled. He stuck out his tongue. “You’re awful.”

“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” She propped her cheek on two knuckles. “Did you know he wants to be a lawyer?”

“Uh. Sort of ish? I’m not surprised.” He shrugged. “He doesn’t talk about it to me a lot because I’m your kid, but I think he’s a fanboy. And he’s got ‘underdog DA’ written all over him.” She nodded with a smile.

“That’s what I thought. He doesn’t have the education or the experience yet, but my favorites to see in court are always those who lived before the law.” She nibbled on her little fingernail. “He can stay the night. We’ll talk about the rest in the morning, when he’s awake.”

“Yes!” He clenched his fist. “Thanks, Mom.” He swung his arm around her shoulders in a quick hug, smacking a kiss on top of her head. “I’ll go tell Krista not to worry about him.” He moved to leave, but stopped with his hand on the knob. “Oh, by the way, and I’m selling him the bike.”

“ _Really?_ ”

“Well, technically I’m selling it to Ymir, since she’s paying for it and shit, but mostly to him. Both of them?” He shrugged. “Anyway, it’s not mine anymore.”

She smiled, eyes squints. “I think selling it to your boyfriend counts as cheating, dear heart.”

He grinned. “Then aren’t you glad that I’m not the one who wants to be a lawyer?”

* * *

Marco jolted out of his doze when a hand groped at his ass.

“Shit, sorry, Zuko.” Marco half rolled over, eyes closed against the light, towards Jean’s voice. “Just trying to get your phone.”

“Huh? Why?”

His phone slid out of his back pocket, and the hand vanished. The bed dipped beside him. “Gonna text Krista that you’re staying here tonight. Damn, son, why do you _have_ this relic?”

“’Cause ‘m b’low the pov’rty line,” Marco mumbled into the pillow, too tired to care.

“Oh. Right.” A long pause. Marco almost fell asleep again, but the phone slapped shut and he jerked back from the edge. “Do you wanna go to another bed, or are you gonna be a cover hog on top of my sheets?”

“N’movin’.” He hid his face in the pillow to black out the tights. Jean chuckled and put his hand on his ankle.

“You should at least take off your shoes. And get out of the cashmere.” Marco groaned, long and low, and Jean laughed. “C’mon, sit up, baby.”

Jean managed to get him out of his shoes and sweater, into his sweatpants instead of his stiff new jeans, and under the duvet instead of half on it. Jean shuffled around his room a bit more, Marco drifting, until the lights turned off and a weight shifted behind his back.

“You still awake, Marco?” Marco grumbled. Jean shifted more; a hand rested on his shoulder. Marco sighed, arched a little into it. The hand slid down and around to his waist, a warm body pressed to his back.

“Is this okay?” Jean whispered in his ear.

“I’won’ be f’you don’ shu’up,” Marco growled. Jean pressed a dry kiss to the back of his neck and scooted closer. His bottom arm dug a little into Marco’s back, but he decided not to care and dropped off into real sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {A/N: So! What started as a quick, maybe-20k story is ending at just under 40k with three different sequel ideas. So the good news is that there will be more (a yumikiri motorcycle road trip to go beat up Ymir's mom, an eren-centric discussion of moving on and graduation, and the titan trio's adventures in the big city). The bad news is that I'm probably not gonna post them on AO3, because I want to turn this whole AU original and the less I have as fanfic the better. I'll still talk about it a lot on the [tumblr](http://carriecmoney.tumblr.com) and the [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/carriecmoney), and if you want to read them there will be ways, but just not through here. Thanks to everyone who supported this effort through its conception!
> 
> ~ Caroline}


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